


we might be hollow (but we're brave)

by stttmsbwa



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrew and Cat, M/M, Mentions of depression and disassociation and other coping mechanisms, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stttmsbwa/pseuds/stttmsbwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew is looking to live his life in peaceful nothingness, but his new neighbor's cat won't stop sneaking onto his balcony. As much as he tries to not make it into something, Andrew finds himself drawn to the mysterious and tempting man next door. </p><p>Neil is just trying to find a reason to not leave Palmetto after everyone else has moved on. But he never thought he would want to run toward something in favor of running away. </p><p>(In a slightly different world, two people find themselves meeting in a softer setting and in just as much need of each other. A story about dealing with pasts, sharing secrets and a cat who is an asshole yet manages to charm everyone around it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one: may-june

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part i: andrew's point of view, the months of may and june

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few notes: this fic deals much with internal thought processes and how it might feel as someone with a history of abuse and struggling to live with PTSD/depression and all the other lovely feelings and thoughts associated with that. In this same vein, I would like to say that a lot of Andrew's inner monologue is self reflective and I am not saying that everyone who has survived similar pasts may feel or think this way. 
> 
> The idea came from a text post I felt inclined to make a few weeks ago about au ideas, and then the idea just ran away with me. There will be 2 more main parts and a 4th part that is more of an epilogue. It will alternate POV's, but each part will stick exclusively to one set of eyes. The rest of the Foxes will find their own cameos here and there (I have extensive notes in how this alternate world differs from canon, because I am crazy.)

It’s not the nicest building, but the apartment has a place to sleep, eat and shit for the manageable price of $700 a month. The only glaring deterrent is the footnote in his rental agreement that states smoking indoors is strictly prohibited, but Andrew guarantees that the landlord doesn’t care enough to monitor on a monthly basis, nor does he give enough fucks to listen at all. The first thing he does after hauling his few boxes and mattress through the front door is shove his bed against the wall where the widest window is installed. It makes for the perfect place to stretch an arm for ashing and to feel the breeze leak in late at night. He doesn’t need much more than that.

That first day, he spreads himself across the bed and focuses his eyes on the water stain lingering in the corner of his ceiling. He lifts his arms upward and watches the sunlight glint across his fingernails. The sleeves of his shirt slip down to reveal bare forearms. He clenches his eyes shut and forces himself to try the new thing Besty had been talking him through—a “mantra” as she liked to call it.

_Here. I am here. This is happening right now. I am in South Carolina. This is the east coast. I live alone now. This is my studio apartment. This is the 6 th floor. I am on my own. This is real. I am safe._

Andrew repeats these facts to himself, letting his hands fall down to press against the mattress. He runs through the mantra until it’s all white noise in his head. When he thinks he can breathe again, he reaches into his pocket.

As he lights his first cigarette, he sticks his head over the ledge of his balcony and considers how long it would take a body to reach the ground at this height. Andrew shivers a little at imagining how it would happen. How the limbs would look sprawled on the concrete. How much it would _hurt_.

The window by his bed will serve more than one purpose, he thinks.

 

◎

 

Andrew first sees it a few days after moving in: a flash of black streaking past his window. For the sake of knowing what the fuck he was dealing with, Andrew pushes his head through the opening and glances to the left. On the neighboring balcony is a mangy looking cat perched on the window sill. Andrew observes the space between his and his neighbor’s balcony—which, in all honesty, was big enough for a couple potted plants, a carton of cigarettes and, apparently, a fucking cat that likes to leap two feet between ledges attached to 6th-floor apartments—and decides he’s mildly impressed.

Not that he’d admit it, but the cat has more guts than him.

Andrew looks to his own bare balcony and decides that if his cat-owning neighbor can utilize the space as a home for tobacco contraband, so could he.

He spares a parting glance toward the animal. The thing swishes its tail and stares right back.

 

◎

 

The second time, he doesn’t realize right away what is happening. Andrew by nature—or nurture, if one can take the sick joke wrapped in that psychological twist—is a light sleeper. He doesn’t hear so much as feel the lightness of a foreign object pressing gently into his calf. Jolting awake, he scans the darkness for the intruder, prepared to reach for the set of knives stored between his wall and mattress, only to find—

a cat, mid-step, ears flat against its head and eyes glowing in the darkness with such discontent as if to say, “can you chill the fuck out?” Of course, this is out of the question. Andrew snaps his fingers in a sharp gesture as his wordless response of, _hey, get the fuck out of my bed_. The cat flicks its tail and casually weaves its way toward the window, not bothered in the least by Andrew’s hostility.

When Andrew uses his foot to shove it all the way out, the thing hisses and swipes a clawed paw across his instep, but he enjoys the pain. It’s a sharp marker of success—a reminder that he’s _here_ and this is _now_ , and everyone can _fuck the fuck off_.

 

◎

 

The third time, and the fourth time, he smacks the cat in the side to rush it back out the window. Both times, the cat lands a hit to Andrew’s arm. At least once, the beast catches him uncovered and leaves a bright red line across his fair skin. It stings for a while, but he has enough scars there though to not really care anymore about leaving a mark.

The fifth time he sees that damned cat, it’s in the afternoon and a voice floats across the space between the balconies.

“Come here, you little shit.” The voice is cracked but tender in its use. Andrew pauses with a cigarette perched between his lips and the lighter poised midair. “Stop your wandering around. If you fall and die, Matt loses the bet and I lose my free dinner, and Allison will never let me forget it.”

Andrew crinkles his nose at the thought of his faceless neighbor having friends and being social. What a concept. He flicks the lighter and savors the first taste of smoke as the tip catches flame on an inhale. He hears his neighbor pause, the slight hitch in his breath enough to tell Andrew that he’d been noticed. The cat starts to climb further out onto the neighboring balcony and hop onto Andrew’s side.

“Yeah, fine, fuck off then. Maybe you’ll stop eating these weird plants and throwing up on my rug.”

Footsteps tell Andrew the man isn’t close anymore, so he lets out an amused grunt. The cat slowly noses its way past Andrew’s smoking hand, whiskers grazing his skin. Andrew doesn’t mind so much, and silently hopes the cat eats an extra amount of plant later on.

That night he may or may not leave the window open, and may or may not pretend not to wake when soft paws pad their way to the corner end of the bed. The next day he sees a soft circular indent with black and white hairs imbedded in his comforter. He sighs and brushes them off before reaching for his morning smoke.

 

◎

 

There’s a seventh and eighth time he sees the cat, but it’s the sounds that reach him first. Andrew was willing one slip up, but in an effort to establish that his apartment was officially a no-cats-invited zone, he’d left the window firmly shut for the night.

The howling, though. For fuck’s sake, the _howling_. Both nights Andrew found himself sweaty and frustrated because of that damned animal attempting to invade his personal space. While Andrew prides himself on his stubborn, cast-iron will, summers in the south are not the best places to sleep without circulating air. The seventh time he lasts 27 minutes before he can’t stop himself, glaring through the glass as he flings the window open.

The eighth time he only lasts 11 minutes. Andrew makes sure to sneer extra hard at the pest before it ambles its way closer to the center of the bed. Its glowing eyes simply say, “Gotcha.”

 

◎

 

The ninth time involves another unwanted source of disruption. While Andrew has started to accommodate the pitter-pats of soft paws winding their way over and around his sleeping limbs—and to be fair, he tells himself it’s partially because he needs something positive to tell Betsy at their next meeting, as she’s been prodding him for months to try reaching out and, well, cats absolutely count, don’t they?—he won’t stand for the sounds of his neighbor clodding around at ass-o’clock in the morning. As Andrew screws his eyes up in annoyance, he sees the cat has curled its way under the comforter. Rolling his eyes, he grabs his phone from the floor and seethes when he sees 5:42 a.m. flash back at him.

He stares up at the water-stained ceiling and listens to the faint noises of his neighbor clonking about. After years of learning the sounds of other humans’ movements, Andrew discerns that the man is opening drawers and putting on shoes, jangling keys and leaving with a firm _click_ of the door shutting and _clack_ of its lock engaging. Andrew sighs and nudges the sleeping lump with his knee. When the bundle meows a low warning, Andrew turns to the window and reaches for his cigarettes. If he thought it would make any difference, he would ask the damn cat what the hell was wrong with his fucktard of an owner.

 

◎

 

There’s a 10th and 11th time that follow, but Andrew’s not counting so it doesn’t matter. The 12th time, though, is harder to ignore because it involves an unsolicited visit from Andrew’s least favorite and only cousin.

“I mean, man, this place is fine and all for your first real apartment, but it’s empty!” Andrew doesn’t watch Nicky pace around the studio, rather finds his gaze focused on the roof across the street. There’s a set of patio furniture sitting up there and he’s never seen it used. Andrew imagines what it would look like if people sat up there. He wonders how quickly the rotted wood would burn.

“Andrew, at least put up some photos or a painting or something. Hell, I’ll even pitch in for you to get a bookcase, that way these things can go somewhere else other than this dirty box.” Nicky kicks said box of paperbacks with a dull thunk. Andrew’s too busy slowly draining the stick in his mouth to respond..

“You—are you okay here, though? Andrew?” He resolutely does not look at Nicky as the man sinks onto the bed next to him. “I know things are different now, and I get that you’re here to be closer to what you need, but you’re still family to me, man. I worry about you, and want to know you’re taking care of yourself. And, if you want, I can try to talk some sense into A—“

Andrew whips a glare at Nicky’s face. The smoke is holding its place in his lungs, and Andrew thinks that he could maybe keep it there forever, just let the dark clouds eat him away from the inside out. Nicky quiets his mouth with a frown and nods. The tension leaks out of Andrew’s body as he finally exhales, turning back to gaze out the window.

A tinny meow coming from the left catches his ear, and suddenly Andrew is face full of fuzzy-furred cat. The cigarette nearly slams into Andrew’s mouth, but he quickly tips the lit end up and away from the animal. In return, the cat purrs a brief hello before trying to walk right through Andrew’s chest and bounding onto the bed.

Impeccable timing, really, Andrew thinks.

Nicky’s knee presses into the mattress as he crawls over to get a closer look, his mood instantly lifted. “Andrew fucking Minyard, what is this I see? Since when do you have a cat?” Nicky cackles as he sticks a careful hand out for inspection. The cat hesitates for a few seconds, as if surprised to find another human in the room, but doesn’t wait long before rubbing its cheek against Nicky’s open palm.

“Aww, what a cute little love bug!” Andrew turns his back and tries not to scowl. He doesn’t care what Nicky has to say or what the cat thinks of his cousin. It’s a fucking cat with personal space issues, of course it likes the lumbering idiot. Andrew stubs the cigarette out and sets it aside for later.

“Andrew, Andrew, really though. Wait till I tell Aaron you got a cat, he’s gonna shit himself with shock. When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me? I wish Erik wasn’t allergic, I’d have like five pets already.” Andrew rolls his eyes and twists his head to see Nicky cradling the cat in his arms like it’s a fucking baby or something. “The cat, Andrew. You do see it, right?”

“It’s my neighbor’s, idiot. What would I do with a cat?”

Nicky laughs and lifts the cat upward, thumbs digging into the poor thing’s armpits. “Love it, feed it, pet it, name it, cremate it when it dies and bury its remains in your casket? Normal pet-owner stuff. Should’ve known you didn’t belong to him, cutie pie! You’d be dead within a day if you were Andrew’s. What’s your name, pumpkin?”

Andrew can’t hold the scowl back now. “I’ve only ever heard it be called ‘little shit’. Maybe that’s its name.”

Nicky scoffs and lowers the cat enough to lay it on its back. The cat struggles of course, because Nicky is starting to look in places that he shouldn’t, and Andrew thought he’d already given the conversation about consent-is-always-required-you-imbecile.

“What the fuck, Nicky.”

“Congratulations, it’s a boy! Now think of a name better than Little Shit.”

“Not my cat, not my problem.”

“You’re the little shit here, if anything, Jesus. Okay. How about…” Nicky takes a moment to think, neck craning back as if the answer will drip down into his brain. The cat wrestles its way out of Nicky’s grasp, its fur sticking up in a show of irritation. It—he leaps over to Andrew and wraps his way around Andrew’s arm, paw pressing into the hand that lays spread out against the sheets.

“I’ve got it,” Nicky snaps, eyes glittering with excitement. “Sir Fat Cat McCatterson.”

Andrew stares at Nicky as if he can see the stupid seeping out of his pores. (He sort of can, to be honest.)

Nicky lifts his hands and sighs, “Ok, you got me. He’s not even fat. It sounds cool, though!” Andrew narrows his stare a little, his eyes slicing their way across Nicky’s face. “Fine, Christ. My second choice was King Fluffkins, on account of his fluffy widdle coat!”

He reaches across the bed to sift his fingers through the cat’s fur, but the cat has had just about the same amount of Nicky as Andrew has—and soon Nicky is screeching as fangs sink in and claws engage to keep Nicky stable enough for a few good pumps. Andrew watches with mild approval, pushing Nicky back when he finally frees his hand. As his cousin rushes off to the bathroom to “wash out the infected saliva from your evil, adorable vampire cat,” Andrew offers a hand to the newly crowned King.

“Nice one,” he murmurs as he lets his fingers scratch along the cat’s head. The resulting purr is as good of “thank you” he thinks.

 

◎

 

Andrew tells himself it’s only because he saw it on the corner shelf by the aisle closest to the frozen foods, that it’s just an incentive for the cat to keep his claws sharp should Nicky come around again anytime soon. He considers it a pre-reward, and in turn buys three cartons of varying candy-type ice creams to balance the three sacks of treats that end up in his cart.

On visits 13 through 15, Andrew makes note that he prefers the store-brand Double Fudge Brownie over the Rocky Road, and that the Cat has a preference for the Tasty Beef over the “Real” Chicken.

But it doesn’t mean anything, really.

 

◎

 

It’s Andrew’s fault for getting comfortable with the arrangement. He’s been living in the apartment for 3 weeks, and it’s not until cat-sighting number 16 that he remembers why he lives alone and far away from anyone he happens to know. It’s late afternoon on a Thursday, and Andrew has about 2 hours until he has to start moving towards Eden’s for a last-minute shift. He’s reaching toward his windowsill for the nearly empty pack that’s sitting on the wood when he hears it.

His neighbor—morning jaunts aside—is mostly quiet, beyond the incessant hum of televised sports and the occasional dropped item, so Andrew is still not used to the sound of his voice. But it’s not the sound that startles Andrew into nearly dropping an unlit cigarette out the window.

“King, come out! Fluffs, c’mon.” Andrew shoots himself away from the window, fingers almost crushing the filter. _That asshole had heard Nicky from a week ago_ and Andrew is already planning how he can say in no words at all that whoever this fucker is should stay. Far. Away. He hears the man next door shuffling around, making noises that sound as if he’s rocking furniture about. “I have to go, and it’s supposed to rain. I’m not in the mood, Fluffkins.”

As he hears the man move further away from their adjoining wall, Andrew sees a black shadow land on his balcony with a graceful jump. The cat peers in at Andrew with one paw lifted, as if waiting for permission to enter. Andrew immediately stuffs his cigarette between his teeth and crawls to the window, his fingers gripping the edge of the wood a little too hard as he slams the frame down. The sound echoes up the thin walls and Andrew hopes that the cat—as well as his neighbor—gets the hint.

 

◎

 

He holds out for sightings 17 through 21, because he’s a stubborn fuck. But even though everyone he knows—all 4 people who might be considered friends, if he had them—would call him soulless, Andrew isn’t strong enough to deny the sad scratches of the King. Plus, who would eat the remaining cat treats hidden between his wall and the mattress?

Not to mention, the _howling_. Andrew tells himself, as he gives in after five nights without enough sleep, it’s to stop the howling. He ignores the tug in his chest when the cat swipes an irate paw at Andrew’s face as he steps onto the bed.

(It’s something he should remember to tell Betsy about later, but instead he wants to bury it in the tiny pocket inside his head labeled _safe, good, kind thoughts here_. The few scattered memories that reside within could use some company, he thinks. And they should be left alone because—isn’t everything safer when left alone and away from all the other shit? It’s a good thing, he thinks. He doesn’t need more than one or two of those, he thinks.)

 

◎

 

The 22nd time is the consequence of Andrew’s recurring hauntings. He doesn’t like to call them that, but it’s a term Betsy has been using for the past year, so it’s hard to not make the connection. If he could, he would pin-point what had triggered him earlier in the day—maybe it was the guy in an Army hat who pushed past him at the convenience store, or maybe it was the shrill woman he’d rung up who had called him a “disquieting young man” and looked as if she’d enjoy smacking him around just for a reaction, or maybe it was just the crowd of teenage morons on the street cutting into each other with the ever-witty, “Haha, you just got _raped_ , bro! Fuckin’ take it, take it!”—just so he could tell Betsy he was doing it, making connections and _trying_ to _acknowledge_ , _assess_ but—

What is life when you close your eyes and keep reliving the worst parts over and over?

The night terrors weren’t so frequent before moving here, but before he had other things to keep his mind locked up. Lots of things in bottles and pills that could keep himself from reliving what he couldn’t un-remember. But he’d been clean of each for too long now and the terrors are coming back in the form of glowering clouds, threatening a storm at any minute. And as they say: when it rains, it fucking pours.

The dream shocks him awake hard enough for his back to slam into the wall. Something is touching his face and it’s dark, he can’t see—he can’t see who or what—one hand goes flying toward the object and the other scrabbles against the wall for some kind of base—and he feels it, his fingers grip something soft and hair-like and Andrew just _tightens_.

The angry yowl is enough to bring Andrew into the moment, but he will think later that the claws were a bit unnecessary. They puncture him in the skin of his upper arm and Andrew can’t help but fling the cat across the room. The animal flails in the air, skids onto the floor and jolts toward the kitchen. Andrew gasps for a full breath, his heart beating a wild rhythm in his throat, as he takes in his surroundings.

_Here. I am here. South Carolina. East coast. Alone. Apartment. 6 th floor. My own. On my own. Safe._

Once he’s calm enough to leave the bed without every limb shaking, Andrew toes his way toward the kitchen and locks eyes with the Cat who has wedged himself in the scant space behind the fridge. It takes a few minutes of gentle coaxing, but Andrew feels he owes King that much after sending the animal flying. Once he’s got the Cat halfway out, he grabs him around the middle and hauls him up.

The trip next door only takes 6 steps. Normally Andrew wouldn’t care, would toss the cat out onto the balcony, but it’s 2 a.m. and he just wants King locked and out of his hair until tomorrow or perhaps for always. His neighbor reaches the door after 5 minutes of heavy knocking. Andrew steps back as he hears the lock turning, and he wasn’t expecting anything really—

and yet, of course, what Andrew finds is that his neighbor, the clodding cat-owning eavesdropping idiot, is—

Andrew shoves the cat into the arms of his neighbor and grits out, “Hey, asshole. Your cat. Not mine. Keep it yours in _your_ apartment, else I’ll have it skinned and set as my doormat.” And then he storms back into his dark apartment and slams the door and resolutely does _not_ consider the fact that his neighbor is an attractive, _very_ attractive, man with _very_ blue eyes and—

Andrew has a cigarette pressed between his lips before he can finish the self-destructive thought that creeps to the front of his mind and makes him feel itchy and much too _real_. He doesn’t even flinch when he hears the next door window slowly sink shut.

 

◎

 

There are 4 days that pass until the 23rd time. Andrew is just leaving his apartment, cigarette tucked behind his ear and keys rattling between his fingers as he shuts the door. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, but pretends not to notice and takes his time locking up. He considers how quickly he can flick out the knives tucked inside his armbands, how swiftly he could have the man on the ground and bleeding from at least two vital sources. Andrew needs to walk down the hallway to the right-side stairwell, but that would mean turning his back to this stranger. So he clutches his keys and considers his options until he hears the person clear his throat.

“Hey, uhm.” He turns enough to catch his neighbor’s face. The man stands with his arms crossed in what should be a comfortable stance, but radiates as a sign of defense. This man with his messy auburn hair and blue eyes darting around as if searching for the closest exists, Andrew notes that this man who stands a little over 6 steps away has a strange burn on his cheek and a downward turn to his lips—the sign of a man who spends most of his time frowning. Winding its way around the man’s bare feet is the cat, fur fuzzily sticking up in a fashion similar to its owner. “I just wanted to apologize for my cat. He kind of hates being alone, so that’s why he tries to spend 80% of his time by, or I guess apparently wandering in your window. Plus I think he likes you more than me, which isn’t hard to do. I’m not really the warm and friendly type. But I’ll keep him inside from now on, if you’d prefer.”

Andrew pauses long enough to drag his glare down the length of his neighbor’s torso and along the unkempt baggy pants that must’ve been found in a dusty dumpster. How distasteful.

“I’m Neil, by the way.”

He reaches for the cigarette behind his ear and clicks his tongue. “90%.”

Neil starts but then waits for Andrew to continue. “Your animal spends 90% of its time bothering me. It reflects how much of the time I want to kill it. And you.”

Andrew turns away and makes a steady pace toward the stairwell. He no longer considers this man a threat to his physical safety, but Andrew needs to get away regardless. He hears Neil call after him, “I can tell by how many pounds he’s put on since you moved in. What are you feeding him, by the way? You can stop with the treats.”

“91% for you, 89 for the animal.”

“Mathematically that doesn’t make sense.” Andrew reaches for the deadweight door that leads to the stairwell. “If I get to 100, would you stop slipping him extra food?”

“Feed your fucking cat,” Andrew throws over his shoulder. He doesn’t wait for another smart retort as his steps echo down concrete stairs and the metal door slams closed. He is only moving quickly because he needs to light the cigarette in his mouth, because he’s running late for work, because he’s absolutely not running away from the problematic neighbor named Neil.

 

◎

 

The 24th time finds Andrew blowing ashes off the pages of the novel laying open on his windowsill. His eyes follow the words in swift movements, one hand holding his chin up and the other dangling a nearly-finished cigarette. The sound of his neighbor—Neil, probably leaving for another early-morning death run—closing and locking his door only distracts Andrew’s eyes for a brief moment. He finds his place again and continues following the shapes of letters.

When a white paw gingerly steps onto the upper corner of his book, Andrew glances up into the face of a curious King. His glossy black tail swishes back and forth as soft huffs of air breathe over Andrew’s forehead. He blows a smoky greeting over the Cat’s head and nearly grins at his twitching whiskers.

“He’s up later than normal.” Andrew stumbles the words out and immediately feels regret trying to burrow its way into his brain. He’s talking to a fucking _animal_ , Betsy wanted him to try humans and here he is putting all his effort into communicating with the cat who lives next door. But it’s nearly the same as nothing, and nothing is all Andrew really wants.

He stubs the dying butt and tosses it out the window. “Your owner is an idiot and I’ll find a way to kill him very soon. You’ll probably starve shortly after that. And then your death will follow. Probably.” The cat doesn’t mind Andrew’s words, and instead darts his head in to nudge his cheek against Andrew’s nose. Andrew starts to pull back but he catches the smell of something fresh and earthy. He lets the cat continue its odd greeting, watching as he circles a few times before curling up atop the open book.

“Your stupid owner should learn to turn the volume down on his damn T.V. I can hear him talking to his exy games like some kind of obsessed freak. Terrible sport, exy. It only makes me hate him more. Anyone who finds enjoyment in such a waste of time is just asking to get killed. On top of that, I know the idiot only eats soup and fruit. He does a shitty job of tying up his garbage and recycling. You should tell him that it’s embarrassing, and it’s no wonder you’re always over here begging for treats.”

At the word ‘treats’, King peers up at Andrew and lets out a pleading _mrrrow_. Andrew _mrrrow_ ’s right back to mock the Cat’s desperate act, but reaches for the packet of Tasty Beef that sits wedged next to his set of knives and his spare book.

“Here, stupid. Eat as much as you want, as long as it pisses off your idiot owner.” King scarfs the treats off Andrew’s fingers and purrs his gratitude. “While you’re berating him, let him know I don’t appreciate being woken at 5 a.m. for when he _feels_ like going for a jog. If he’s going to produce such unnecessary noise at all, the least he could do is make my coffee for me. I’m less likely to murder without reason when I’ve got caffeine in my system.”

King Fluffkins runs a rough tongue across Andrew’s finger and he shivers at the tingling sensation. It’s the first time in a while that he can recall _feeling_ something against his skin. He wipes his damp fingers against the sheets. He pushes it down, _down_ , focuses on _here_ and _now_ instead.

The Cat is already purring himself to sleep. Andrew considers slowly tugging his book out from underneath the Cat, but instead reaches for his spare. He drowns his mind with the printed words and doesn’t think about anything at all.

 

[The next morning, Andrew opens his front door to find a thermos sitting in front of his apartment. He looks around the empty hallway before picking it up. It’s made of that nice kind of metal that keeps heat in, and he’s not surprised to find that the coffee inside is still hot. Neil had left at 6 a.m. and it was already nearing 9:30. Andrew takes a tentative sip before sealing the thermos and locking his door.]

 

[The morning after that, he listens from his kitchen as Neil prepares to exit his own apartment, only to trip over the same thermos. Andrew knows he will find that the mug is cleaned, dried and containing an empty packet of Tasty Beef and a slip of paper that says “ _92% / 88% — get better coffee_ ”. He hears Neil twist the container open, pause, take tentative steps toward Andrew’s door. Andrew doesn’t listen to Neil’s footsteps as he heads toward the stairwell, doesn’t wonder if Neil was going to knock, doesn’t wonder what the man would have said if he had knocked or consider if he would have answered. He doesn’t do anything but watch his kitchen sink slowly leak lonely drops of water.]

 

◎

 

The 25th time finds Andrew dangling his feet out the window, arms wrapped around his shins. His upper body stays mostly indoors, his face resting on his knees. He’s following the pattern of brick that runs down the exterior of the building across the street. A swooping anxiety grows in his chest as his gaze slides closer to the sidewalk. It’s a good reminder, he tells himself. Betsy says it’s another good way to stay awake and grounded, to remind yourself you have control over a fear. Andrew is just hungry for the tingling that crawls up his legs.

A clatter draws his attention to the left. A hand is reaching out to set a second coffee mug onto the small balcony, nearly pushing one of the odd potted plants down. King leaps out as the hand draws back in. Andrew waits for the Cat to weave his way over.

“He’s lying to you, you know.” Andrew doesn’t look, just watches as King inspects his toes with curious sniffs. “He gets fed every morning and night. I do feed my cat, just so you know.”

Andrew darts a glance over to Neil. He’s got his head stuck out, arms resting across the sill. Andrew wishes for a moment that he was on the other side of the adjoining wall, if only so he could shove the man out and down to the asphalt below.

“Would you like some?” Neil points to the second mug of coffee. Steam is billowing and Andrew knows he’d heard the gurgling of a coffee pot just minutes ago. Even though it’s almost 5 o’clock and the sun is setting, a fresh cup of coffee doesn’t sound bad at all. Andrew bends down and reaches a blind hand out for the mug. He doesn’t think about how Neil’s careful with the reach so as to not spill a drop or touch a centimeter of Andrew’s skin.

He pulls the mug through the window and to his face so he can sniff a little before sipping. He can hear the sounds of Neil lighting his cigarette and drinking from his own mug. The coffee is a sweeter blend from the first kind. Andrew has less trouble choking it down. The sun is glowing a soft, somber goodbye as the sky trades away its reds and oranges for the dusky blues of night.

“So am I still at 92%?”

Andrew drains the last of the coffee before pulling his feet back in. His leg hairs are alive with goosebumps brought on from the light breeze. King watches his movements with careful eyes. He sets the mug on the inside ledge of the sill.

“93,” he says before he climbs up to get dressed. He needs something stronger than coffee, he thinks.

 

◎

 

Visits 26 through 34 happen over the next two weeks. A few mornings, multiple afternoons and a handful of nights find Andrew and Neil gravitating to their respective windows, and King alternating between both sides. Their schedules aren’t exactly synched, but they find a rhythm that suits them. Sometimes their communal visits are silent, Andrew lighting cigarettes and poking at the Cat’s tiny paws while Neil lets his smoke float up, up and away. Some of their visits start with Neil’s words as he slowly works on tugging Andrew’s out into the open.

 

●

_On the 27 th:_

It’s nearing 2 p.m. on Andrew’s free day. He’s holding a book in front of his face as he sits pretzel style with his back against the wall, cigarette hanging over the empty coffee mug that continues to live on Andrew’s sill. King is purring in the pocket between his legs and—

“He came from my friend. The cat. My friend said I needed to have something living with me, or else I’d leave one day and never come back. I couldn’t say no, not after he unloaded all this cat shit in my apartment, so now I’m kind of stuck.”

“Sounds like you’re just kind of stupid.”

“I mean, I did almost drop out of college.”

“College is for privileged morons who think they’re gonna be something more.”

“Maybe. I thought I’d play exy, but my shoulder got screwed up before my second year.”

“Good, exy’s fucking stupid.”

“Maybe. It was the only thing I actually liked.”

“Oh. Neil. Your life sounds pretty boring.”

“Says the man who talks to his neighbor’s cat.”

Andrew pauses. King is still curled up in his lap, head burrowed under his calf. He reaches over to shut the window, closing out Neil but keeping the cat.

 

●

_On the 28 th:_

It’s early in the morning and Neil’s just back from a run. King is waiting on the balcony, ears perked as Neil shuffles his upper body out to hang over the ledge. Andrew stretches over an offer of a cigarette and confesses—

“My therapist says I need to learn to vocalize my thoughts more. Apparently I’m too...closed off.” He doesn’t say, _I get stuck in my own head a lot and forget that there’s other people._ He doesn’t say, _I’ve not needed to speak with anyone new for a long time that I might not remember how to._ He doesn’t say, _I usually don’t like exchanging words with any person, but you make me want to try_.

“So is this how you start? By stealing your neighbor’s cat and then saying you’d like to murder them both 93% of the time?”

“You have an annoyingly suspicious ability to listen in on private conversations. And it’s 94 now.”

Neil nods as if that’s a fair raise. He lights the cigarette and watches the smoke plume up. “I’ve seen a few shrinks once or twice. They always ended up being self-professed savants trying to fix me though.”

“You sound like an impossible mess, no wonder it didn’t work.”

“It didn’t, it’s true. Some parts are too broken to put back together. Some parts just don’t work anymore.”

“Is that why you never bring anyone around for illicit tours of your decadent quarters?”

Neil hesitates as if he wasn’t expecting this follow up to such an obvious self-set up.

“I don’t really do that. Those kinds of things.”

“What, date? Or have sex?”

“Either. Neither. I don’t...swing. I’ve never really found anyone interesting enough to try. I’m not too bothered by it. I do fine on my own.”

Andrew licks his lips. He doesn’t say, _if you’re so fine, why are you talking to me?_

“You know, about that 94%, I don’t know if I should believe you at this point.”

“Believe what you want, you’ll know it’s true when I’m standing over you with a knife in each hand.”

“Are you always this charming with your neighbors?”

“You could ask but I’ve killed them all.”

He hears Neil chuckle as he leaves the window. He catches the sound of Neil moving sheets around, opening drawers, changing clothes. He listens to the brief rattles that signal Neil exiting his apartment. Andrew is receiving this information like a passive audience member. He isn’t waiting for anything. He needs nothing.

 

●

_The 31 st:_

It’s just before noon and Andrew is eating pieces of a shredded sandwich before he has to head out. He slips King a few scraps of the ham. Neil has been silently within view but—

“So since you’ve named my cat, does that mean I get to name you?”

Andrew doesn’t offer any response to such a ridiculous request.

“Or should I admit that I also heard your friend when he was here, and that I already know your name? I didn’t mean to steal his idea, by the way. It just fit and it _is_ better than ‘Little Shit.’”

“Cousin. Nicky’s my cousin. I don’t have friends.”

“I would say I’m surprised, but I also want to guess whether or not you draw the line at killing family.”

“I don’t. Family doesn’t mean shit.”

He sees Neil shrug in agreement.

“I’ve been told that family is what you make it. Not always sure I believe that, but. I don’t have any family left to really compare it to, I guess. So I’ll take them if they’ll have me.”

“They’d be better off with you dead, I’m sure. I’d be doing them a favor.”

Neil’s face breaks out in a wry smile, and Andrew suddenly wants to reach across the distance to smack it off. Just seeing it makes a part inside of him twist in odd ways. He doesn’t know what to do about the itch clawing its way up his chest and spreading across his sternum.

“Nice talking, Andrew. Thanks for fattening my cat against my wishes.”

He dips back into his own room and Andrew rolls his eyes at King. The glitter in King’s eyes says, “Yeah, fuck that guy, feed me whatever you want.” So Andrew does.

 

●

_The 33 rd:_

It’s nearing 1 in the morning and Andrew is clumsy with anger. He doesn’t care that the plaster separating the apartments is thin—he hopes everyone can hear the clunk of his shoe thrown into the corner and the smack of his phone sliding across the bed to meet the wall. His arm bands are yanked off and tossed on the floor. He’s swift with the lighter and is inhaling fast when—

“You sound louder than usual tonight. Everything ok?”

Andrew clenches his jaw and takes a moment to breathe. He’s torn between _too much too soon_ and _distract, take me away, make it nothing_.

“You’re a real fucking creep, you know that?”

“Just making an observation.”

A pause long and heavy. He keeps his eyes open and focused on something off in the distance. It might be a smokestack. Andrew’s eyes are starting to blur so he can’t tell.

“Shitty night at work.” He can’t help but stare at the way his hand shakes. He wills it to stop, _demands_ that of himself, the semblance of control. _You are here. Here. This is now. You are talking. You are 6 stories up. This is safe._

“…wanna talk about it?”

No response. _Here_. _Now._

“I think you’ll have a visitor soon.”

The Cat makes his graceful leap to perch on the balcony. Andrew can’t help but gently run a finger from nose to forehead. King doesn’t seem to mind the tremor in Andrew’s hand. The silky patch of fur behind the Cat’s ear is soothing in unexpected ways.

_I am here_.

“I have a thing…about touching. Don’t like it when others do it without me saying it’s ok. A guy got a little handsy tonight at work, so I decked him.”

It’s the tipping point—Neil could either pry or take the conversation in another direction. Andrew doesn’t have any expectations, so he is neither let down or encouraged by Neil’s response.

“Where do you work?”

“A bar, a few nights a week every so often when they need a shift covered. Although my boss told me to take a little vacation to cool off. Apparently hitting the customers isn’t good for business.”

Andrew considers the fact that he hasn’t felt let down or encouraged in a very long time, and doesn’t know what to do with it. Acknowledge and assess, that’s what Betsy always says.

_I am here. This is now._

“You ok on money?”

“I have a day job.”

Silence until—

“Good, it’d be a shame for you to get evicted. And I’d hate to have a neighbor who actually likes me and doesn’t overfeed my cat.”

The finished cigarette tumbles from Andrew’s fingers and down toward the dark street below.

_I am safe._

“95.”

“Does that mean King Fluff is at 85 now? Or does he not actually go down every time I go up? I’m having trouble keeping track of the mathematical formula you’re using.”

“Go to sleep, stupid.”

“Goodnight, Andrew.”

He isn’t let down or encouraged when Neil closes his window. Andrew’s just a man with a borrowed cat in his bed. He’s just nothing at all.

(Usually this thought is enough to calm him, but tonight it settles into his skin. He scratches at his forearms, eyes locked on a spotty piece of wall until he’s too exhausted to keep them open.)

 

◎

 

The 35th visit is a consequence of Neil’s own ignorance and Andrew’s inability to ignore his reluctant yet slowly growing emotions regarding a fucking cat. He comes home from his afternoon shift at the bookstore to find a listless lump sprawled across the foot of his bed. Multiple piles of green, wet vomit trail from the windowsill to the center of the mattress, as if the stupid thing had paused to puke before moving a few inches only to puke yet again.

Andrew runs a hand down King’s back, ready to chide the cat with mocking words, but—

There’s no reaction, no sound or movement. Heat radiates off the animal’s body, but the breaths feel shallow as Andrew gently presses down. The Cat’s eyes are sealed shut and when Andrew runs his finger past its nose, he notes the dryness with a severe jolt that rushes down his spine.

It takes Andrew five minutes of angry banging to realize Neil isn’t home. He isn’t coming to the door and he isn’t around to retrieve his potentially dying cat and now it’s on Andrew’s bed.

And now it’s on Andrew.

He calls Renee to explain their change of plans. She meets him at the clinic closest to his apartment. The evaluation takes over an hour, but Andrew only stops spinning the front desk’s pen when he sees the vet carrying King to him. The woman explains to Andrew that he shouldn’t let King Fluffkins nibble on anymore plants, and Andrew doesn’t even begin explaining how much this isn’t his fault. Instead he nods a brief thanks and carries King out to his car.

Renee tries to ask a few questions, but he’s revving the engine as he tells her they’ll reschedule their training session later before he speeds the whole ride home on autopilot. Andrew’s already planning all the places he’d like to slice into that moron next door, starting with the unmarked cheek and slowly working his way down that awful, firm chest.

All plans halt when he finds Neil sitting in front of his door. His head is hung, hands gripping the back of his neck, every inch of him trembling with panic. At the sound of the stairwell door slamming, Neil looks up and his face is a mess of emotions that Andrew doesn’t have the tools to decipher.

“Andrew. I—what happened?”

With steady steps, Andrew reaches Neil and bends down enough to transfer the sedated King into Neil’s outstretched arms. He tugs a bottle of medicine from his pocket and chucks it at Neil’s forehead.

“Get rid of the fucking plants, you idiot.”

“Ok, yeah. Of course, but—

Unable to stomach the collision of thoughts crashing in his head, Andrew looks away from Neil’s face. Instead, he twists his gaze to watch his shoe kick at Neil’s knee. “Move. I have sheets to clean.”

Neil hauls himself up and shifts aside enough for Andrew to shove his keys into the lock. He waits until the door is open before he extends a hand.

“Can I, just—is this ok? Can I?”

Andrew’s gaze locks with Neil’s. He doesn’t move an inch. He tries to read the meaning behind his blue eyes, behind the hovering hand, behind the question loaded with intent yet requesting permission. Andrew nods slowly, his lips moving around the word, “Yes.”

Neil presses his hand into Andrew’s shoulder and leans in closer.

“Thank you. For helping King.”

He has a joke at the ready—“ _I still plan on killing you both myself_ ”—as well as a knife a fingertip away, and yet he can’t. The weight of Neil’s hand on his shoulder is heavy and all-consuming and making him _itch_. He does nothing.

When the moment passes and he sees Neil isn’t going to let go soon enough, Andrew pushes Neil’s arm away and slips into his apartment. He watches Neil’s unchanging face as the door closes. He doesn’t react to anything. He walks into his bedroom to rip the sheets off his bed. He piles them into the corner and thinks about nothing at all.

 

◎

 

[He lets Renee get three questions in before he snaps. They’re “How are your nightmares?”, “Are you really thinking about going back on the meds?” and “Have you thought about trusting him?”

He’s not focused enough to plant the hits where they should land. Renee doesn’t notice at first, just keeps trying to talk at him as usual while continuing her routine. Andrew makes sloppy attempts to move around her but he hasn’t been sleeping well, he hasn’t been in his body as much as he probably should, and keeps getting stuck in his head.

_Trust him with what?_ _There’s nothing for you to give, nothing for you to gain. You’re nothing. And you can’t do a thing to change that. Born nothing, die nothing._

Renee is able to slam him down without half her usual effort. She’s got a look of concern on her face and it only infuriates Andrew even more. He feels the emotion well up inside of him until he just _snaps_ —

_You’re back there, you’re 8 and you’re hungry and alone and afraid and something inside you hurts very badly. You’re 12 and you’re bleeding all over your pants and crying into your arms and no one asks if you’re okay. You’re 17 and the car is sailing down the road so fast, so fast and there’s screaming and you’ve never been so angry in your life. You’re 20 and you’re flying high, high in the colors all around and nobody cares. You’re nothing then, you’re nothing now._

He doesn’t realize he’s been murmuring until Renee taps the mat by his head.

“Andrew, you’re not nothing. You’re not nothing.”

_Nothing. Nothing._

“I’m here, Andrew.”

_Here. You’re here. I’m here. Now. Safe._

It takes him 20 minutes to realize he’s been staring up at the pipes that run along the gym ceiling. Renee has been sitting next to him, quiet and waiting.

He curls into himself when he sits up. Renee offers him some water and he takes it. He thinks about how hard it was to start taking things from her when they first met. Andrew remembers how he’d internally melted down the first time the two of them had been alone together for more than an hour. He thinks of the small pocket inside him that now houses a piece of Renee, a tiny but warm piece.

It’s not much, but it’s not nothing.]

 

◎

 

It’s the 37th visit and Andrew doesn’t know anything anymore. His eyes are focused on an invisible hole inside the book he’s holding with one hand. The other holds an unlit cigarette. He’s not waiting.

Neil slides his window open and King jumps out as spry as ever, and Andrew notes with satisfaction that the neighboring balcony is now devoid of any plants. King makes a beeline for Andrew, darting across the two-feet distance to Andrew’s balcony and swiftly crawling beneath his book. Andrew presses a silent hello to the cat’s head with his chin before looking to the left.

Neil’s eyes are already focused on him. Andrew sighs and shuts the paperback. Without checking for Neil’s reaction, he tosses the book toward Neil’s chest and hears it connect with fumbling hands. He hears the sound of pages flipping before Neil asks, “This is for me?”

“I’ve already read it. Borrow it. Read it, if you know how to.”

“I don’t usually enjoy reading.”

Andrew reaches for his lighter, shaking it firmly before flicking it on. “Fine. I was right, you are illiterate. Toss it back so I can return it then.”

“You go to the library?”

“Return it to work.”

“You work _at a library_?”

“A bookstore, asshole. Give it back then, if you’re so ungrateful as well as illiterate.”

Neil turns the book around to study the back. King pushes past Andrew to creep his way into the bedroom, as if he needs to inspect Andrew’s new set of sheets. As if he’s saying, “Oh yes, good. This is exactly why I puked green shit all over your bed last week. Nice choice.”

“I’ll try it,” Neil answers. “Wouldn’t want your thievery to go to waste.”

“Borrowing.”

“Same thing, really.”

“The owner lets me, so shut the fuck up about it.”

“Does this mean you hate me a little less?”

Andrew ashes in Neil’s direction. “I always hate you. But now I don’t want to kill you 4% of the time.”

Neil raises an eyebrow but also manages a small grin. He doesn’t say anything else, but Andrew can see from the corner of his eye that Neil starts to read. Andrew thinks to himself, _it’s nothing, it’s nothing._

 

◎

 

The 38th time is not really a time at all, because it doesn’t actually involve King in person. Andrew’s blood boils at the sight of Neil walking through the front door. He doesn’t say anything until he’s standing next to Andrew’s counter.

“You work here?”

“No.” Neil glances at the register that sits six inches away from Andrew. The snort that escapes his mouth makes Andrew want to snap his nose with a tight fist. Instead, he says, “Why are you here?”

Neil reaches for his back pocket to pull out two objects. He slides Andrew’s book across the counter first, then flips open his phone. “I wanted to show you two things: one, I finished the book. It was good, but the ending was confusing. Second: I wanted to show you this.” Neil presses a few buttons to pull up his phone’s photo album. He pauses on the first picture that pops up and holds it out for Andrew to see. The photograph was taken in such a blurry fashion that Andrew is forced to snatch the device and analyze at a closer range.

It’s a grainy shot of King, wrapped inside the hood of a garish orange sweatshirt, his ugly cat butt planted on what appears to be Andrew’s loaned paperback.

“I had thrown the book on the floor next to my sweater so I wouldn’t forget it before leaving this morning, and there he was. I think he dragged it in there, because it wasn’t that close last night.”

Andrew considers his actions for two seconds before not thinking at all. He attaches the photo to a text and zips himself a copy. “Next time you take a shitty photo of your shitty cat, send it to me instead of stalking me at work.”

“Ok, but be warned, I promised my friend I would send him weekly updates. There’s a bet going on how long I can keep the cat alive. That’s why I take the pictures.”

Andrew closes the phone and sets it on the counter. “Your friends have so little faith in you that they’re hoping you’ll kill an animal.”

Neil shrugs. “They’re weird. Although to be fair, they bet on everything. Matt promised me free dinner though if the cat makes it past six months.”

“From what I can tell by your garbage, you need the free dinner.”

“Which is probably healthier than the amount of sugar you consume throughout the month. Tell me, does Hershey’s deliver their chocolate straight to your door, or do you have a Sam’s Club membership?”

“CostCo, obviously.”

They stand like that for the rest of Andrew’s shift just talking. Neil admits that he enjoyed the reading. Since summer training hasn’t started up yet—and suddenly knowing that Neil is an assistant coach for a college exy team makes every bit of sense to Andrew—he’s been a little more bored than usual. Andrew immediately walks away from the counter and into the depths of the empty store. He finds his shelf, the one he uses to set aside copies to “borrow”, and plucks a dark cover at random. Neil catches the book with an eager sort of hunger in his eyes. Andrew tries not to think about it at all.

They talk for the rest of the hour until a co-worker arrives to relieve Andrew. And when Andrew wordlessly leads Neil to his car, the man follows without hesitation. It should feel weird, Andrew thinks, that it happens so easily. But if he pulls that thread, who the fuck knows what would unravel. Andrew isn’t a knitter or a tailor. He’s a destroyer, and what he destroys can’t be put back together.

So he pushes the thought aside, because the sight of Neil in his passenger seat seems like more than nothing. For once, the voice screaming in his head is silent. For once he feels the kind of panic that seems normal and doesn’t require a _here and now_ mantra.

For once the thought of something has Andrew feeling lighter than ever. Like he could float instead of fall.

 

◎

 

The 40th ‘visit’ happens in the middle of Andrew’s weekly appointment with Betsy. He’s exhausted from digging out the words to explain that through his usual numbness there’s this itch that’s been growing in his skin. He can’t explain where it’s coming from and he can’t determine how to make it stop. Instead, he can feel it spread like a slow-growing rash. He’s letting it bleed into the back of his mind and down his arms.

(He doesn’t show her the fading marks from the few times he’s let his nails dig in, but there’s only so much he can give Bee. There are some dark parts he still needs to keep to himself, parts nobody needs to know about.)

It’s Wednesday and Andrew is chewing on the inside of his cheek while Betsy tries to decode Andrew’s messy thoughts.

“When you call it an itch, do you mean it in a negative way? Or is this an itch that motivates you?”

He doesn’t want to admit that he’s unsure, that he hasn’t felt anything close to motivation in a while. “Would you like to hear my thoughts, Andrew?”

He sighs. “Whether I want you to or not, you’ll end up telling me, Bee.”

She smiles into her mug of cocoa and takes a quick sip. “You spent many years surviving, Andrew. You did it because it is human instinct. Sometimes you survived out of spite. At some point you hit a wall and shifted away from surviving for yourself. Aaron, Nicky—you spent years of your life living so they would survive. But now they’re good, they’re alive and safe and living without you. Now you only have yourself. How do you feel after all that?”

Andrew grips the lukewarm mug in his hands. “Empty. I feel empty.”

“You get up every morning, Andrew. You work. You eat. You’re not dependent on medication anymore. You’re acknowledging the triggers to your nightmares and starting to sift through all the times you’ve had to survive. You’re not drowning anymore, but do you have something to swim for? What are you _living_ for?”

His eyes gaze up from the dusty dregs of his drink to find Betsy’s. “I’m here and I’m breathing. You don’t have to be anything or want anything to live.”

“Perhaps. But if you wanted to be anything, what would you be?”

Andrew lets the question settle into his skin. A sudden buzz against his thigh distracts him from the thought of Betsy’s words worming their way into his bones. He checks his phone to find the most ungraceful photo of a cat perched atop a fridge, the shredded remains of napkins in disarray around his twisted form. Betsy taps her fingers against the ceramic mug.

When she is allowed to lean forward and see for herself, she coos softly and offers Andrew a knowing smile. “I think that maybe instead of trying to decide whether you’re nothing or anything, you should just be. Acknowledge and asses, Andrew. You have an itch. Will you ignore it and will it away? Or will you scratch at it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! First time posting fic in literal years! Please let me know if you feel I should add any other warnings in the tags, I am unaccustomed to creating them (well-versed in reading them).
> 
> If you feel the need to search me out on tumblr, I am [on the tumblr](http://clubbingattheclub.tumblr.com). I am no one, though. So save yourself the trouble.
> 
> Any lines or quotes that sound like they're familiar are 100% most likely taken either from Nora's extra content or the book itself. I may have paraphrased or tilted the wording, but you'll get the references I'm sure. As well, the names for cats mentioned are also of Nora's mind. What a genius. I take no credit, characters are not mine, I claim no knowledge of what they actually think or feel in canon, just surmising because sometimes I bleed Andrew Minyard so much it fucking hurts.


	2. part two: july

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part ii: Neil's point of view, the month of July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you for all the positive response! AS WELL, thank you to broship_addict who drew [a gorgeous picture](http://broship-addict.tumblr.com/post/141827143907/im-screeching-over-clubbingattheclubs-cat) of Neil and Andrew at their respective windows (AND CAT). Y'all are unbelievable. 
> 
> warnings: mentions of past child and domestic abuse in some detail, a scene with non-consensual kissing and groping (none performed by Neil or Andrew), and some fighting between boys. there's smoking! eating in unsanitary ways! mentioned-much-too-frequently-by-my-subconscious-writing Matt Boyd! as well as some additional faves who make appearances. any quotes that sound like they were taken from the books and reworked to fit the scene, were absolutely taken from the books and reworked to fit the scene. 
> 
> enjoy~

It’s the first week of July and the South Carolina heat is simmering with a pleasant hum. Neil could have spent the rest of his day at the stadium watching tapes or swerving around the court with his own personal training routine, but Wymack had shoved him out with some choice words about “finding a fucking life, Josten”. So he caught the next bus into town and now he’s home before 5 p.m.

The idea of a home has always been too abstract for Neil to define with pictures. He always associated it with a feeling or reaction. For the longest time, home was a house in Baltimore loaded with hypertension, fear, and waiting—always waiting, whole body clenched and bracing for the next hit. For years, home was a run-down car with too many miles on the tires, his mother rigid and fierce with her need to run and drive and lash out when Neil didn’t move fast enough to keep up.

He thought maybe home could be a team. But the Ravens were just as vicious as his father and just as unfeeling as his mother. His time at Edgar Allen had started with never-ending anxiety, and had finished in shades of red and the deafening pain of bones breaking.

Home was never something locked down or dependable, not until he moved south. Neil thinks he might have a home now.

Dan once told him that a family is made of the people you find in life. Or, as Neil thinks about it, the people who find you.

It was Matt who dumped the scrawny black-and-white cat on the kitchen counter a few days after Neil moved in. “I know you’re avoiding it,” he’d told Neil, hands on hips and infectious grin trying to hide a look of concern. “But I’m leaving soon and you’ll be stuck here and I don’t want to worry about whether you’ll cut and run in the middle of the night. Make this cat the thing you need to come back to. And this way I know you won’t be coming home to an empty apartment every day. Also, we’ve made a bet on how long you can keep the thing alive.”

Neil didn’t admit to it, but he had already been considering all the different ways to leave town. He could take a bus, or hitchhike, or find his way to a train station or an airport. Without Matt, he felt detached to the Palmetto campus. A part-time student wasn’t exactly allotted on-campus housing, and as an assistant coach he didn’t feel it was appropriate to stay in the Fox dorms. Living off-campus in a bare apartment two blocks from Wymack felt a little too heavy at times. He craved the weightlessness of having no tethers such as leases or promises made through the lives of animals, because that meant the freedom to escape.

But after spending two years wearing down Neil’s numerous defenses, Matt had learned how to hit him with the most effect. “Neil,” he’d said. “This cat is your responsibility now. I expect weekly updates. Learn to use the camera feature on your phone, ok? I’m in it it to win it, Josten. Dinner is on me in six months time!”

And that’s how Neil got stuck with a studio apartment and a cat with an attitude problem. He’s kept said cat alive for three months now (although the cat’s near-fatal encounter with the weird plants Dan had gifted him—“ _Cacti, ‘cause they match your prickly personality. Happy fuckin’ housewarming_.”—was a close call).

He also might share ownership with his neighbor next door.

Neil considers what he knows about Andrew, whose existence has grown more involved than the cat he feeds twice a day. Between the death threats, endless cigarettes and inevitable sarcasm, anyone would assume that his neighbor actually does hate him. But Neil also knows the look of anxious fury that painted Andrew’s face when he handed Neil his limp, sick cat. He knows the touch of Andrew’s fingers through the pages of borrowed books. He knows the sound in Andrew’s voice that says, “I have been in pain for so long I don't even feel it anymore.”

He knows enough about Andrew to be certain that he doesn't _actually_ want to kill Neil. Or, at least, maybe not quite 96% of the time.

There’s a note stuck to Neil’s door.

_Ordered too much food. Knock if you’re hungry. Don’t if you’re not._

A quick assessment tells Neil that his fridge has a frozen pizza in the freezer, two apples and a peach in the crisper, and a container of almost-expired juice sitting on the shelf. He was planning on watching clips of the new players set to arrive for pre-season orientation (because they’ll be here soon and he needs to think more about training plans and integration strategies and anything else that ensures he’s committed to this team, committed to the coming season, committed to staying and watching yet another year of other people playing _his sport_ ) but.

For once, Neil decides that in this moment he doesn’t need exy. What he needs right now is to know what Andrew likes to order for take-out.

He walks away from his door and knocks on Andrew’s instead. When it swings open, Neil finds the impatient form of his neighbor and tries not to smile. His traitorous cat weaves his way around Andrew’s legs, his eyes glowing up at Neil as if to say, “What did you expect, dumbass?”

Neil is ushered in with no greeting besides, “About fucking time.”

(They sit on the floor of Andrew’s kitchen area, because Andrew doesn’t believe in furniture. The noodles are greasy in the most delicious of ways. Neil talks about the new recruits anyway, and Andrew throws out his cynical observations. When Neil asks how Andrew knows so much about exy, he gets a piece of beef chucked at his face. King Fluff is more than happy to jump up and steal the scrap. It’s a good night, Neil thinks. This could be a home, he thinks.)

⊗

He supposes that maybe the dinners are repayment for all the coffee Neil leaves on Andrew’s doorstep (which he does when he hears Andrew up late at night and it coincides with him waking up hours later to feed his desire to _run, run, run_ ). But after everything Andrew had done for him lately, it seems a little unbalanced. He tries to slip a few bills under Andrew’s door (because he’s sure paying for dinner three nights in a row adds up), but he only finds them wedged between the pages of the next book, or stuffed in one of his cleaned, returned mugs.

Neil wants to call Andrew a mystery, but he’s not. Andrew is quite simple in theory. He works two jobs, has no desire to cultivate friendships in his spare time and begrudgingly cares about Neil’s cat. Neil can read Andrew’s stats, and they scream:

  * dangerous if touched
  * 5 feet tall
  * clever and analytical
  * lives by the principle of absolute tit-for-tat



It’s enough for Neil, so he doesn’t push Andrew to reveal any more than he wants to. But sometimes Neil can’t help his curiosity, his tendency to “poke the sleeping, murderous bear” as he's been told.

Matt and Dan (and Wymack, and Allison, and even Abby) have always said that Neil could sometimes get fixated and run his mouth faster than his brain can keep up with. Maybe it’s these qualities that land him in the awkward position between window sill and the murderous glare of one Andrew “what the fuck did you just say” The Neighbor.

The offer is hovering in the air between their balconies, Neil’s hand extended and lightly gripping the ticket Wymack had pushed across the desk to him earlier that day. Andrew is staring at the ticket like it might catch fire without warning. King Fluff isn’t a part of this interaction and doesn’t try to get involved. Probably a smart choice.

“You can say no. I’ve just noticed from talking about it that you obviously know things about exy. I’ve got a spare ticket and wouldn’t mind the company. But you can say no.”

Andrew doesn’t say no, but he doesn’t move for the ticket. Neil sighs and starts to retract his arm. It’s this movement that finally inspires Andrew.

“What do I get in return.”

Neil considers arguing that he was trying to pay Andrew back for everything he’s done lately, but that would lead into him admitting that Andrew has done more for him than buy a few cheap dinners.

“What do you want?”

He puffs on his cigarette a few times before answering with smokey words, “A night out with me. We can drink for free at the bar I’m acquainted with.”

_Sounds harmless and easy enough_ , Neil thinks as he nods and reaches his hand back out. Andrew takes the ticket carefully, his fingers resisting any physical contact. They don’t say anything afterwards, and a few minutes later Neil leaves the window to crawl into bed.

⊗

The game is on a Friday night. Neil is torn between excitement and frustration as he loads into Andrew’s car. His tense frame doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s wrong with you? I thought you were practically married to exy.”

Neil shrugs and plays with the visor above his head. “An old teammate is playing. He’s the one who recruited me to the team I was on a few years ago. It—it was like a dream and a nightmare coming true at once.”

Andrew doesn’t respond as he starts driving toward the interstate. Neil has learned that Andrew’s silence is as much of an encouragement as he’ll get.

“I played for the Ravens. If you know exy, you’ve heard of them. And if you’ve heard of them, you know about Riko Moriyama. He’s the one who—“ Neil cuts off, his hand drawn to the echoing pain radiating from his right shoulder. “I got between him and my teammate during a fight, and when it was over the doctors said I wouldn’t be able to swing a racquet ever again. They were wrong, but I’m not the same anymore. I’m not nearly good enough anymore.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything, but digs a packet of cigarettes out of the center console. Neil takes it and pulls out two sticks.

“You’re that kid then, the one who cried wolf and got Riko kicked out of exy for life.”

The anger flares in Neil’s chest and as his temper raises its hackles.

“All I did was tell the truth. It’s not my problem the fucker was openly injuring teammates in front of cameras and audiences. Don’t get me started on the shit he would do behind closed doors. That sick son of a bitch.”

Andrew takes the exit toward the stadium and pulls a long drag from his cigarette. “I wasn’t blaming you. Riko got what was coming to him. I would say it’s too bad he took you down with him, but it would go against my belief that exy is just a waste of time and sweat.”

It’s as much as either of them wishes to discuss, so they let the conversation drop. Soon they’re pulling into the stadium and finding the way to their seats. Neil had spoken to Matt earlier in the day to help calm his anxiety ( _“Stay in the stands, don't go too close to the court, and talk all the shit you want about the plays and players.”_ ), so he's not as preoccupied with his usual hang-ups. As the game draws Neil out of his shell, he finds himself jumping out of his seat and cussing commentary into the crowded void. Andrew doesn’t say much at all, but Neil catches him watching the entire game with a casual glare of disinterest.

Two minutes before the end of the second half, Andrew leans in to whisper, “Day’s gonna send it into the upper right corner. The goalie isn’t going to see it coming.” Neil doesn’t have time to retort or question because it’s happening right there on the field, as if Andrew was some kind of exy prophet.

Sure enough, Kevin Day shoots the ball into the upper right corner, and the goalie takes too long to process this, her racquet not coming anywhere close to blocking the ball’s path. The wall lights up red and everyone in the crowd is screaming.

“How did you know that?” Neil asks as they push their way through the masses. “How did you call that last play?”

Andrew starts patting his pockets, in search of his cigarettes. “I would’ve caught it.”

It’s the most Neil has ever learned about Andrew’s strange history with exy, and it’s enough to have him buzzing with excitement as they walk toward the visiting team’s locker room. Andrew seems unimpressed with the prospect of lingering indoors (and the security guards are glaring at the cigarette he has tucked behind his ear), but he follows Neil with hands shoved into his pockets.

Kevin is all adrenaline and criticism. His voice carries over the cheers of his teammates as he throws comments out to different players, noting where they should “pick up the slack” or “tighten that move”. The looks on his teammates faces—irritated but begrudging respect—make Neil almost miss playing with the man. When he locates Kevin and approaches him, ready to vocalize this very thought, he sees Kevin’s demeanor turn from energetic to bewildered.

“Neil. You—” His eyes are stuck on Andrew, a strange note of recognition passing across his face. “Andrew Minyard, goalkeeper for that juvenile center team in California. Great foresight, ruthlessly fast and not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

Andrew sneers and tips his head. Neil looks between the two of them and blurts, “You know each other?”

“I tried to recruit you to the Ravens and you laughed in my face.” Neil is certain he’s never heard Andrew laugh ever, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Last I heard you went off and became a waste of time. I’m surprised you’re not in jail right now.”

Andrew manages a shrug. “Nothing they can prove. I’m good at hiding the bodies.”

Nodding, Kevin turns to Neil and grins. “And now you know Neil. I recruited him the year after you spat at my feet. You were a loss, but he had more passion than you could have ever shown. I realized he was the best investment I ever made when he saved my life. And then his sacrifice was my gain.”

Neil, used to Kevin’s dark humor surrounding his injury, can almost interpret the hint of _thanks_ layered under Kevin’s haughty comments. He doesn’t expect Andrew to react as he does, though. A quick hand shoots toward Kevin, and without warning it’s wrapped around the striker’s throat. Andrew drags Kevin’s body down until their faces are almost touching nose-to-nose.

“I wouldn’t make jokes about someone’s sacrifices like that if I were you, Day. Maybe it's time for you to pay up. Should we make it an even trade? His shoulder for your windpipe?”

Kevin chokes out noises of distress and a few teammates rush toward the two in a panicked attempt to break it up without further injury. Neil jumps in first, though, hovering a hand over Andrew’s wrist.

“Andrew, it’s ok. He’s just kidding, I promise I’m not cut up over it. Just—you can let go.” Andrew darts a look to Neil before staring back into Kevin’s eyes. He bares his teeth before pushing Kevin away by the throat. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as Kevin coughs air back into his lungs.

“Fuck, Minyard,” he manages after rubbing at the red skin around his neck. Neil knows from experience that it’ll bruise into a purple by tomorrow. “I almost forgot how scary you are.”

Andrew turns and walks out of the locker room without another word, leaving Neil standing in the middle of all the confusion. Kevin raises an eyebrow his way before adding, “I’d pick a better guest to bring next time, maybe.”

Neil starts to follow Andrew, pausing long enough to shoot back, “Or next time stop being a coward and actually invite your fucking father instead of using him as your delivery man.”

Kevin shrugs a fake apology, pointing a finger into Neil’s forehead before he can fully move away. “You owe me a conversation about my offer, Josten. We need an answer by the end of August, and you know I don’t take no very easily.”

Neil swats at Kevin’s hand and says, “Congrats on the win.” And then he’s chasing after Andrew, drawn by the glint of yellow hair and determined gait of the man who was more mysterious than Neil had assumed.

Neither of them says a word on the drive home.

⊗

A mutual silence settles between the balconies for a few days. King Fluff is their only source of interaction, and even that happens without them exchanging so much as a glance. When Neil snaps his weekly photographic proof of a living cat—King Fluff perched on the ledge of the window, head turned and eyes laser-focused on the patch of birds idling on the roof across the street—he considers only texting Matt, but.

He sends it to Andrew in another text because he can. Neil doesn’t check his phone for the rest of the morning. Instead he runs for 8 miles until the sun has risen high enough to start burning his skin. When he returns to his apartment, he finds 2 texts waiting for him. He ignores Matt’s comments about _“framing the sunlight, so beautiful, dude”_ in favor of reading Andrew’s three times in a row as he tugs at his sweat-drenched shirt.

_Less blurry than usual. He looks hungry. Do you feed him ever. Cream or sugar in your coffee?_

Neil taps his thumbs along the sides of the phone and thinks before responding. _Cream yes, a little sugar. I fed him before I left._ He looks around his apartment for a moment before continuing. _Is he over there with you?_

_Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. Come to the window._

Neil’s damp torso welcomes the breezy air when he sticks his head out the open window. Andrew is waiting for him, two mugs settled on his balcony. Neil reaches out to receive the second and takes a cautionary sip. Andrew is staring at him with that glare he pulls out just for telling Neil how much he hates him.

“How about we play a game,” Andrew says as he watches Neil take a second deeper sip. “You tell me something, I tell you something, and so on. Yes or no?”

Neil runs his tongue along his lips, savoring the combined taste of salt and creamy coffee. He understands that a divide had been created last week when Kevin opened up his mouth about Andrew’s past. If there’s a bridge to be rebuilt, Neil knows this is how they’ll do it.

“Yes. Ok.”

Andrew is still watching him, as if waiting for Neil to pull out a list of secrets or make some other equally declarative gesture. Neil takes a longer sip and stares right back. He waits until his drink is half finished before opening the gate.

“My parents are dead. They were both crazy in their own ways, so it’s fitting they’re both dead now. My dad wanted to be some kind of gangster, but never got very far with it. He tried out a few torture tactics on me for a while, though. My mom ran us out of the house when I was 11, and we never stayed anywhere for very long. She wasn’t right in the head all the time, but I think she loved me in her own strange way.”

Neil’s throat rumbles with the roughness of a voice unacquainted with so much continuous use. Andrew listens with open eyes and a face with no reaction as Neil explains how his mother would move them from city to city, insisting that his father was coming for them. How she would smack him around to toughen him up, to teach him how to stay on the move, to show him what would happen if he tried to plant roots or build relationships. How his low-life father ended up in prison for multiple counts of murder, and one day was stabbed in his bunk over a petty argument. How his mother died in a hospital from injuries sustained after their car ran off the road and into a median.

Andrew’s on his second cigarette by the time Neil finishes his story. It’s a long one, but Neil hopes it’s enough to cover all the little pieces Kevin had carelessly thrown out last week. A person like Neil understands the sacrifice in sharing such private tokens. He could imagine how violating it feels to have those secrets tossed into the open without permission.

Grabbing for his own pack of cigarettes, Neil lights the filter and puffs enough to catch a light. He inhales the fumes as he watches Andrew move his gaze away and start to speak.

“I was in juvie for a few years, that’s where I learned how to play exy. I preferred the escape into a slightly larger cage to the alternative. Playing was definitely more entertaining than sitting in a cell with a roommate whose sense of humor consisted of cracking height jokes every time he saw me. That’s how Kevin knows me. I moved to the East Coast after getting out, and he tracked me down. I had no desire to play, no reason to keep playing, so I told him to fuck off. I had other shit to worry about, and I had just been put on meds that made everything hazy and hard to focus. There was no point, I had promises to keep in Columbia. So I told him and his little buddy Riko to go bother with someone who actually cared.”

Neil watches Andrew stub out his cigarette and toss the remains down to the street. He keeps watching Andrew as he follows the dirty filter’s fluttering all the way to the asphalt. He’s been watching, but for the first time he thinks, _Now I’m seeing you._

“I would like to see you play.” It gets a reaction from Andrew, his head swiveling around to stare at Neil with a look that might be incredulous anger—it’s something Neil doesn’t think he’s seen on him yet. Andrew’s face is screwed up like he’s daring Neil to go on. “If Kevin and Riko wanted you on their team, I’ll bet you were pretty impressive. I’m just saying, it would have been fun to play against you. Or, if you had said yes, with you.”

Andrew continues to stare Neil down and suddenly it feels as though the sun is baking the air between them until it’s hard to differentiate between tension and humidity. As the first to pull away, Andrew grabs his empty mug and starts to retreat back through his window. Before he leaves, he jabs a finger at Neil and spits, “You’re at 97.”

Neil peers down into his empty cup. He grins to himself, as if that 1-digit increase means something else entirely.

⊗

They continue the sharing game throughout the course of a week. With every exchange, they peel back layer after layer of memories and hurt, neither one reacting and neither one condemning. It’s more than Neil has ever revealed to any therapist, and more honest than he’s ever been with Matt or any other person.

It’s strangely freeing to know that in exchange for Andrew’s stories, Neil has told Andrew about Lola and the backseat of his father’s old station wagon, the way he can still taste the pungent warmth of burning skin as she tore his face apart with a car lighter. He trades away his story of how his mother caught him being kissed by a girl behind the gymnasium and how she had smashed his face in so badly, he couldn’t see out of his swollen eye for almost a week. His offerings include the time he intentionally lost his mother inside a mall and spent hours hiding under a restaurant barstool to watch the exy games playing on TV.

In return, Andrew opens up with his neutral tone to share stories that match Neil’s in some ways, but bear their own marks of a life lived without unconditional love or a guarantee of safety.

And Neil holds onto his new Andrew facts like the little treasures they are. He chews on the knowledge that Andrew grew up in the foster system and bounced around so often that he needs an extra hand to count how many schools he’s attended. He holds onto the idea of a young Andrew leaving behind toys and clothes, but grasping the spine of a well-worn book when shuffled into a social worker’s car. He clenches at the thought of Andrew having to fight his foster siblings for a plate at dinner or of when Andrew was left locked in a closet for three days before someone remembered to let him out.

Exchanging stories with Andrew brings Neil a sense of peace. It gives him a feeling of mutual companionship he’s never found in another person. It’s proof that, if Andrew is standing still without breaking apart, maybe Neil can, too. And even if one of them falls or flees, then at least the other knows why. Neil can feel the strings of trust and hope weave into him until he’s irrevocably tied to Andrew in ways that thrill and terrify. It’s the most self-destructive he’s felt in a long time.

⊗

They drive to Columbia on a Friday. Andrew is playing it off like Neil owes him for the exy game a few weeks back, but Neil doesn’t see the hardship in going anywhere with Andrew. They ride down the interstate with loud music and cigarette smoke billowing out of the cracked windows. Andrew hadn’t explained anything before they left beyond tossing a bag of clothes to Neil and saying, “It’s the kind of club where _your_ wardrobe isn’t allowed, so put this on instead.”

Neil doesn’t see the difference between what he’d planned on wearing (a worn pair of jeans and a grey shirt with no discerning features) and what Andrew had bought (new jeans and a black shirt with no discerning features) beyond color and tightness, but he had changed outfits without much complaint. He thinks he understands better when they park in the employee area and walk toward the entrance. Sure enough, all the patrons lining up are more of the tight-fitting, dark-colored-clothing crowd. He silently thanks the fact that Andrew didn’t insist Neil pierce a few holes into his face as well for the sake of fitting in.

They’re granted entrance by a rather buff bouncer who greets Andrew with more enthusiasm than Neil anticipates. He watches their fist-bump exchange with a small grin. _Fascinating_ , he thinks.

Andrew leads Neil to a couple open seats on the far end of the bar. Pulsating music vibrates its way up Neil’s legs and he peers over to the platform where the majority of the gyrating and dancing bodies are gathered. Andrew focuses his attention on the bartender working his way down the line and signals between him and Neil when noticed.

“On your tab, then?” the bartender says as a greeting, sliding forward two shot glasses and filling them with the house whiskey. “And a guest, too. Hi, I’m Roland. Andrew works in the back when our kitchens are short-staffed. I’ve never seen him bring a friend around though.” He shoots a suggestive glance at Andrew, who ignores him in favor of draining his shot. Neil looks between Roland and Andrew, attempting to translate the silent conversation that appears to be occurring. Eventually Roland chuckles and fills Andrew’s glass a second time.

“I guess this would explain where you’ve been the last few weeks. Have fun, you two! Let me know if you need anything a little more heavy.” The man wiggles his eyebrows before sliding his way down the bar.

Andrew taps his shot glass against Neil’s and says, “Time to pay up, Neil.”

The liquor burns when he tosses it back, and Neil is reminded of why he refrains from drinking in general. But when he meets Andrew’s eyes, he thinks that for once they’re glittering with an emotion that may be akin to mirth. It’s either the liquor in him or the liquor in Andrew, but he’ll take it. Together they assess the sloppy courtship of moving bodies and gracefully vulgar dance moves.

Neil and Andrew share short small talk that revolves around trying to guess the day jobs of the studded, glittered up or neon-decorated patrons. Roland swings by to refill their glasses a few times, and Neil is just starting to feel a buzz from the alcohol and the soft press of Andrew’s elbow sliding into his own when—

“Andrew! You made it!”

A sweaty heap finds its way between them as the stranger loops a bare arm around Andrew’s shoulders. “I knew you’d be coming around sooner than later, you little hermit. You don’t call, you don’t text, and I almost feared I’d find your body rotting on that smelly, old mattress. Renee told me you’re fine though, and that she sees you twice a week. Why does Renee get to see you and I don’t? You wound me, Andrew.”

Neil observes as Andrew pries the other man’s arm off. “Because Renee has something to offer me. Unlike you. You’re drunk and I’m annoyed.”

The man clicks his tongue and pouts. “You’re always annoyed. It’s your default setting.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Oh, Neil. This is Nicky. Your cat once took a chunk out of his hand because he was being an asshole.”

Nicky turns to look Neil up and down. “Oh. Well, hello.”

Neil nods before saying, “You named my cat.” Nicky’s smile lights up his entire face, although Neil supposes it might also be due to the glitter streaked across his sharp cheekbones.

“I did! King Fluffkins, the adorably evil vampire cat! Has Andrew killed him yet?”

Andrew has already turned back to face the bar, flagging down Roland and making a motion with his fingers. Neil frowns as he watches Roland respond with his own gesture and move toward the back area.

“Not for a lack of trying. I’m positive my cat likes him more than me, though.”

Nicky snorts and begins pulling at Neil’s shirt in various places. “You’re, like, ridiculously attractive, you know that? This shirt is doing you all sorts of favors. I’d wonder where Andrew had found you if you weren’t living right next door. Unreal, I swear.”

Andrew takes notice in time enough to smack Nicky’s hands away before they can reach lower than Neil’s stomach. “I need to go speak with Roland about my tab. You,” he says to Nicky, a finger jabbing into his cousin’s chest. “Stay here and watch him. But,” he emphasizes with an extra, more forceful jab. “Keep your hands to yourself. Hear me?”

Nicky laughs and waves his cousin away, and Neil watches as Andrew slips through the crowd to follow where Roland had disappeared. Nicky is swaying as he directs his attention back to Neil’s arms.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just grumpy because it’s been awhile since he’s seen Roland. That or he’s probably just picking up.” Neil flinches slightly as Nicky wraps a hand around a bicep, but doesn’t pull away when Nicky tugs him toward the dance floor.

“What do you mean, ‘picking up’?” Neil follows Nicky until they reach a small, cleared area between couples and groups swaying to some electronic slowjam. Nicky uses his hands to move Neil’s shoulders in an attempt to inspire him into a dance move or two.

“He’s probably grabbing some dust. Not that it ever does anything to him that the liquor won’t. But he’s probably also picking up Roland! I’d make a joke about Roland picking Andrew up, but. I caught them once, you know? And it was the weirdest sight, Andrew was doing this thing with one hand doing this—”

Nicky grasps Neil’s wrists in one hand and lifts them up a little above Neil’s head. “—and one hand was doing this,” Neil jerks backwards as Nicky trails a hand close to his belt line, and Neil is definitely feeling the shots of whiskey but not in a good way. Nicky pulls his face closer to Neil’s and laughs, oblivious to the panic leaking through Neil’s taught limbs. “I’m not single in the least, but my boy’s out of town and he gives me permission for one kiss per night out. I’d like to use that one kiss on you, you handsome cat-owning man.”

Neil doesn’t react quick enough to stop Nicky from pressing his wet lips against Neil’s. He feels the chills instantly rush to every corner of his body, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured down his back. Yanking his hands from Nicky’s grip, he pushes the other man off and makes a break for the bar. Before he can step off the platform, though, Andrew is in his space, hands gripping the neck of his shirt.

“What did he do.” Andrew’s eyes are ablaze with an anger Neil has only ever seen once, when Kevin dared to joke in the exy locker room a few weeks ago. “Neil, did you want him to do that?”

Neil shakes his head, dazed from the nearness of Andrew and his stormy demeanor. Before Neil can explain no-harm-no-foul, Andrew is setting him aside and pushing his way to Nicky’s wobbly form. It takes one punch to knock Nicky onto the floor and two of the stronger-looking bouncers to pull Andrew off his cousin. Neil thinks that if the bouncers didn’t already know Andrew and Nicky, they would have left in handcuffs instead of with the contrite escort they receive.

Andrew doesn’t wait to hear Nicky's plaintive apologies or explanations. He's got a cigarette poised before he reaches the employee parking lot, Neil hot on his heels. With one look backwards, he sees Nicky tripping down to find a seat on the curb, his hands raking through his hair and face a devastated mess. When they reach the car, Andrew flips open his phone and dials a number.

“It's Nicky. He's wrecked outside the bar. Come get him before someone else does.” Andrew hangs up before the person on the line can respond, then climbs into the driver seat. Neil slides in slowly, eyes fixed on Andrew’s tense shoulders and then on the fingers of his free hand that grip the steering wheel with alternating pressure. Andrew waits until his cigarette is drained before he flicks it onto the gravel and slams his door shut.

The ride home is quiet and thick with tension. When Andrew turns the steering wheel to turn onto the interstate, Neil musters the courage to ask, “Will he be alright?”

The flashes of Andrew’s easy humor and subtle enjoyment from earlier that night had been all too brief, and Neil wishes that they could just go back a little. He wonders what they would have done with the rest of their time at the bar, if Nicky hadn’t interrupted. If Andrew had stayed by his side. If Roland had taken his waggling eyebrows elsewhere.

“I called my brother. It can be his problem.”

Neil debates the pros and cons of twisting open the can of worms labeled “So it seems you have a _brother_?”, but like Andrew, he knows that ‘family’ isn’t always as thick as the blood that’s spilt. It was good enough to know that Nicky, as intrusive as he was, would be taken care of by someone at all.

Andrew pulls the car into the complex parking lot and they trudge their way up the six flights to their floor.

When Andrew reaches his door, Neil pauses. He wonders if this is one of those moments, the kind he'd see in those awful movies Dan would make them watch in Matt’s room back in the Fox dorms. He doesn't know what to do with this internal correlation, but he decides it wouldn't hurt to go with it. Matt would be so proud, he thinks.

“Andrew, I--,” but Andrew doesn't let him finish.

“Don't lie to me, Neil. If a line was crossed tonight, you need to tell me. What Nicky did was—I'm not—”

Neil lifts his hands in an attempt to slow Andrew down, but it only causes Andrew to take a step back. There’s a brief flutter of anxiety that passes across Andrew’s face, but it’s gone quickly, as if he’d just swallowed it down. Neil retreats and tries again.

“Andrew. I'm okay. I'm not saying what Nicky did was alright but, I mean, I've been kissed before. I just wasn't expecting it and, he was saying things about you and--”

Andrew's eyes narrow to dangerous angles. “Saying what exactly?”

Neil rubs at his right shoulder— _“Phantom pain, man,”_ as Matt would say. _“You do that whenever you feel guilty, so stop because you shouldn’t.”_ —as he attempts to assemble the correct words. “He was saying things about you and Roland, and I think he was just using them as an excuse to—”

“There are no excuses for invading someone's mouth with your tongue, or anything else for that matter. And Nicky talks without asking permission much too often.”

They pause for a moment, eyes roaming across faces and down bodies, as if searching for injury or pain. Finally, Andrew clenches his jaw, takes a tentative step forward and grits out, “Neil, I. Yes or no?”

His hand stretches out, preparing to wrap around Neil's neck. It could be the beginning of a hug, if Andrew were the kind of person to dole out hugs. Neil doesn't mind either way. He immediately nods his head and says, “Yes. Whatever it is, I’m. Whatever, Andrew. Yes.”

“No,” Andrew bites out. “Not whatever. You say yes to what is being offered. You say yes to what _you want_. Don't make a blanket statement, don't assume that someone is going to know your boundaries.”

Neil nods, not knowing how else to placate Andrew. “Yes then. Yes, you can touch my neck.”

Andrew’s eyes break a little as he eases his hand down to curl around the Neil’s nape. Neil can feel the tension leaking out of his body, and he hopes that the way Andrew seems to settle back into his bones means he's doing the same.

“Are you ok?”

Neil had never seriously considered the idea of Andrew being concerned with his well-being. Everything surrounding Andrew consisted examples of “mine as well” or “paying you back”. The thought of Andrew being concerned at all both startles and thrills Neil.

He moves to hover his own hand near Andrew’s neck and asks, “Can I touch you there, too?”

Andrew’s face shifts slightly as he thinks of what Neil is offering. “Yes.”

His hand touches Andrew’s neck and it's warm. It's soft and it's something Neil didn't know he'd been thinking of, but it's real and it's happening. Neil wants to stay right in this moment. He’s not thinking about next season’s commitments or the decision he has to make by the end of August or anything at all except—right here. Right now.

“Andrew. I'm fine. I'm good where I am. I’m safe.”

And for once, Neil isn't lying about how he feels. And for the first time, Andrew doesn't have a snarky comment at the ready. They stand in the hallway for a few moments, just breathing in the reality of “fine” and “good” and “safe”.

⊗

Neil doesn’t bring up that night again until a few days have passed and Andrew’s face has finally lost the crinkle across his forehead. He used to think that crinkle was for him, but now he thinks it’s just for people in general. (And now that he notices the difference, he considers the decrease in crinkle-sighings in the weeks leading up to the Columbia trip. Would that mean that Neil is no longer a “person in general”? He feels a strange surge of pride at that thought.) As he’s noticed with what few third-party interactions they have encountered, Andrew seems to only tolerate small doses of premeditated human interaction before his attitude starts leaking from his lips and fingers. The crinkle is a good sign of just how close he’s getting to the breaking point where his tongue starts lashing out, his fists quick to follow. Neil has learned that it’s best to let Andrew be, at least until the crinkle has smoothed away.

They’re bent halfway out of their respective windows, their eyes focused on the sun as it peaks over the neighboring rooftops. King is curled up between Andrew’s elbows as the man holds one hand under his chin and the other at a tilt so the cigarette smoke plumes away from the cat.

“Can I trade in a story for what Nicky said?” The unspoken boundary, crossed once again because someone else is telling Andrew’s stories without his consent. Neil knows the only way to break their tentative silence is to make things fair, to make them even as much as possible.

“No one’s stopping you.” It’s as much of a request as Andrew would ever make, so Neil takes his cue.

“My dad had a thing for knives. It was his M.O., using cleavers or paring knives—anything sharp and metal, he knew how to use it to inflict the most pain and the most damage. His favorite was this axe that— Anyway, when I was growing up I had to learn how to use a knife, too. Family business and all. He used to tell me, ‘You’ll grow to like this. It’s in your blood. Someday you’ll get hard just thinking of slicing into someone’s skin.’ It was the first time I’d ever heard that word used, and I didn’t really understand what he’d meant until years later.

“Lola, she worked with my dad as a runner and a mover. But she moved bodies, not product. I was always terrified of her, and would disappear when I saw her coming into the house. Sometimes I’d sneak out and hide in my dad’s car. That’s where she found me one day, curled up on the floor of the backseat, trying not to move or breathe. She dragged me up and pressed me against the seats. I remember her saying, ‘You’ll be a looker someday, someday you’ll get hard just thinking of a girl in the backseat of your car, someday you’ll like this.’ When she grabbed at my jeans though, I bit her arm and tried to get out from under her. That’s when she did this.” Neil gestures to his cheek and the ugly burns that will always mar his skin.

“I’m not saying that’s the reason why I don’t date or swing or whatever. I’m what I am and the way I am regardless of what’s happened to me. But it’s something that’s happened to me.”

Neil turns to gauge Andrew’s reaction. He hopes the weight of his story will justify the many lines Nicky had crossed the other weekend. Andrew’s forehead crinkle is back, though, and Neil wonders if maybe he said too much.

He starts to open his mouth to—apologize? To ask for a do-over? Neil doesn’t know how to go back from this and the panic is starting to bubble up from his chest. Andrew must see him reach for his shoulder and try to swallow the words back in, because he doesn’t let him get one word out.

“I can’t remember a single foster home that wasn’t bad. I’m the way I am because the world is a cruel place and adults think they can do whatever they want to worthless children. They get away with it because no one wants to listen to worthless children. We are treated like nothing and we grow up into nothing. The best we can do is to not become the monsters of our own creation. I don’t like to see a person’s choice taken from them, not like that. Nicky deserved to be left there on the side of the road, not because of what he told you about me, but because he didn’t have a right to touch you without your consent. That’s what I’m not ok with.”

Neil watches Andrew pull a second cigarette out of the pack, his other hand rubbing at King’s head.

“It’s not the world that’s cruel,” Neil says. Andrew pauses before flicking his lighter. “It’s the people in it that are cruel. That’s the choice we all make: to let ourselves be like them, or to be better. Be more.”

Andrew lights his cigarette and tilts his head. “Oh, Neil. Are you majoring in exy management or philosophy?”

It’s the first joke either of them has made since that night in Columbia. The crinkle is gone and Neil can sense the return of their tentative bridge hovering in the two feet between their balconies. He grins at his hands and thinks that maybe Andrew and him are just two worthless children trying their best to be something out of nothing. And, he thinks, maybe they could do that together.

⊗

They’re sitting over a box of pizza, Neil continually shooing King away and frowning at Andrew whenever he sneaks a shredded slice of pepperoni under the cat’s nose. Neil’s folding the pizza into a funnel shape to create easier access into his mouth as Andrew rips his slices into smaller jagged pieces. There’s a 2-liter of Coke and a bottle of whiskey for swigging. It’s unsanitary and Neil’s back is aching a little from hunching over, and he’s enjoying every moment of it.

“So,” he says mid-chew, testing Andrew’s reaction. “Is Roland your, like, you know…”

Andrew sends Neil an empty glare before swiping the whiskey for a sharp sip. “No, Neil. I don’t, like, know. Maybe you should use your words, college boy.”

Sighing, Neil tries again. “Your boyfriend or something?”

Another swig of whiskey is washed down Andrew’s throat. “No. Not in any definition of the term. He’s just a person I do things with.”

Neil tries to keep a straight face when he asks, “Sex things?”

“You are such a child. Are you sure you didn’t mean to say ‘Gay Sex Things’? Is that what you’re really asking?”

Andrew is flicking at his pizza scraps and that crinkle is coming back full force. Neil tugs the whiskey bottle to him so he can take a quick drink. “No. The gay part was obvious when it involved Roland. Unless you’re into women or other people as well. Whatever suits your fancy, or you know.”

“Women,” Andrew snorts. It’s a strange noise to hear come out of his mouth. Neil secretly likes it. “Absolutely not. It’s hard enough to find a man I can tolerate for longer than 5 minutes. Couldn’t imagine trying to be with a woman for a second.”

“So what made Roland make the cut?”

King lurks around Andrew’s folded legs, paws reaching for the closest piece of battered pizza. Andrew picks it up and hovers it above King’s head.

“He was close by. He’s easy on the eyes. He makes a good drink. He lets me be in control.”

“Is that in order of most to least important or—“

“Are you asking me to rank the qualities I look for in a man.”

Neil bites at the corner of his lip. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Mmhmm, it sounds like you’re trying to do something else. It’s not like it matters to you, though. You don’t swing, remember?”

It was a lingering thought that had been lying dormant, existing without much life in the back of Neil’s mind. But suddenly it’s as if lightning had struck and— _bam_ —it’s alive.

“You like me. You _like-me_ like me.”

Andrew’s face does the scrunching thing again, like he’s trying not to react but failing. “No. I hate you. All of the time. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you.”

Neil slides his body a little closer to Andrew, his hands moving the bottle of whiskey aside. “Andrew, I don’t take interest in people in general. And I don’t usually talk to my neighbors, or eat pizza on their floors. I can count on one hand the number of names in my phone, and for 19 years I thought I wouldn’t live past 20 if I wasn’t wearing a jersey. When I walk down that hallway and see your door, I get excited. And normally I only ever get excited when I’m walking toward an exy field.”

Andrew cuts him off. “I can’t be your answer, you know. I can’t be the thing you live for. I’m nothing and I can barely live for myself. So don’t look at me like I have any answers.”

“I’m not saying you’re an answer, I’m saying you’re a reason for something and I—. Andrew. You’re not nothing. You’re not nothing to me.”

When Andrew wraps his hands around his face, Neil goes willingly and readies himself for the impact. Andrew’s lips hit his like their only goal is to conquer Neil’s, to lay a claim on every ridge and corner. It’s a kiss that isn’t sloppy like the one Nicky had forced on Neil at the bar, but tactful and wild. Like Andrew thinks this is his one chance and he’ll take everything he can out of it. Neil would let him have it all.

“I need you to tell me if this is ok,” Andrew chokes out when he breaks away, hands still clutching at Neil’s head with a desperate grip. “Is this a yes or a no?”

“Yes,” Neil breathes. He doesn’t hesitate to answer. He needs this in a way he’s never known before. In a way he didn’t think he ever would. “It’s a yes. Yes to kissing. Again.”

They meet halfway in a collision of lips and noses. Andrew grips Neil around the nape of his neck and uses his spare hand to press Neil’s clenched fists into the ground. They work around each other’s needs—Neil letting Andrew drive the speed and pressure, Andrew letting Neil’s curious tongue cross over his with cautious swipes.

After a few frantic minutes, their kisses begin to melt into something softer. Andrew breaks off enough to mutter, “You should have said no.”

“Why? Is the whole kissing thing going to interfere with your plans to murder me?”

Andrew yanks at Neil’s hair before he backs away completely. Neil, rubbing at the back of his head, fights down the urge to smile. “I’m starting to think that your 97% is just a big ruse. You’ve liked me this whole time.”

“Make that 98.” Andrew’s tone attempts to sound grumpy, but Neil can tell by the lack of forehead crinkle that he’s probably right. They finish as much of the pizza as they can and Neil carries King back to his apartment. When he changes for bed, he realizes there’s streaks of grease still caked into the back of his hair. He falls asleep with one arm wrapped around a pillow, King curled along his legs, and a hand tracing the lines of Andrew’s lingering touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOOOO this part was mainly finished before I even posted part i, hence the quickness in positing. in all reality, probably won't get to part iii for a few days, maybe a week, since I haven't even finished it yet. AS WELL as of right part iv isn't anything more than a list of "to do's" if you will. SO JUST SAYIN' Y'ALL, I've got some work to do. 
> 
> anyway. if you got questions or wanna yell at me, hmu at my [tumblr.](http://clubbingattheclub.tumblr.com)


	3. part three: july-august

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part iii: andrew's point of view, the end of july and the month of august

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is: part iii. read the end of chapter notes for warnings ( **there are multiple mental health warnings**!!! if you think you could be triggered by something, please read them. there's nothing graphic, but if you have more specific concerns,  come ask me and I'll put answers under a cut if you need. I don't want to spoil some of the events in the chapter, but I also want you to be healthy!). read the end of the chapter as well for my own ramblings about how this part was a serious labor of love for me. read the chapter for some good stuff, some sad stuff. 
> 
> disclaimer: I am not the be-all, end-all expert in how to handle these topics, so I'm working solely off my own personal experiences as a sexual abuse survivor. As well, some of the minute details may not be 100% accurate to the books or to what Nora has said, but that's probably bc I got lazy and didn't want to look up just EXACTLY where certain scars were located. please don't sue me, thanks! any dialogue that sounds familiar is totally from the books. :)

Renee manages to get Andrew on his back yet _again_ . As he struggles to breathe under her weight, she smiles down at him and says, “I think it’s cute. He thinks _you’re_ cute.”

Andrew growls and uses his legs to roll them sideways. He wiggles out of her grip and scrambles back to his feet.

“Yeah,” he pants, forehead sweaty from the past hour they’d spent sparring. “And just a week ago I thought he didn’t think anyone was cute. He could be lying.”

“Did it _feel_ like he was lying?”

Andrew raises his fists and gestures for Renee to come toward him. She’s quicker and this doubled with her experience means she’s got the advantage. But Andrew thrives under pressure. They exchange careful strikes, arms raising to block and fists swinging for uncovered areas. Renee hops back to give Andrew a short break and tries another angle of questioning.

“After everything you’ve told each other, does it seem like he would lie to you about this?”

Instead of answering, Andrew dives for another round of hits. This part of the gym is always empty during the post-morning-pre-lunch weekday hours, so the sharp smacks echo across the empty space. Soon enough, Andrew manages to get Renee on the ground, his knees trying to pin her thighs down as he attempts to disarm her dangerous hands.

“I think you’re just a little scared,” she says casually, as if she wasn’t fighting to keep Andrew’s hands from reaching absolute control of her wrists. “Because there’s this potentially great thing happening right in front of you. And you—” She twists Andrew’s grip on her left arm until _she’s_ the one in control—and then Andrew’s two seconds to react are quickly gone as her legs break free and he’s flung backwards off of her.

“You don’t know how to let yourself be happy. That’s what I think.” As she stands back up, she shakes out her hands and walks over to where Andrew is lying, yet again, on his back. “Not to mention, this guy has you really distracted. This is the worst I’ve seen you in a while.” (She doesn’t define “a while” as “that time last month when you had a panic attack and almost passed out on the mats”, but Andrew sees the parallel she’s making. It’s obnoxious of her, to be honest. He’s obviously doing much better than then.)

She offers a hand but Andrew pushes himself up without her help. They walk off the mats to grab the water bottles that are sitting against the wall. Andrew chugs half his water before he turns to Renee.

“I’m not scared. I just don’t know what I’m expecting with him. I never know what to expect with him. Every time he does or says something, I’m thrown off.”

Renee nods, her face softening with an understanding that Andrew both hates and is drawn to. “It’s because you have low expectations for everyone, including yourself. This is the first person to really surprise you. What you should consider is: are these good surprises? Do you want to continue being surprised? Or do you want out?”

Andrew considers what it would mean to be out. It would mean closed windows, locked doors. It would mean throwing out the bag of half-eaten cat treats that sits beside his mattress. It would mean paying for the two books currently on loan to Neil and that he probably wouldn’t get back. It would mean saying goodbye to something he didn’t think he had at all, and yet.

“I want,” he starts to say. What he doesn’t say is, _I want, and just that unsettles me. Because for the first time in forever, I actually want something more than nothing, and that means I could lose it. You can’t lose nothing._ Instead, he spits out, “I want to know that he’s being honest. That’s all.”

It’s a partial truth. A part of Andrew does need to double-check and triple-check that Neil is being more than honest about what he’d said and what he’d allowed to happen.

What Andrew had done to him. He feels the need to pinch the skin along his arm, to take him away from those thoughts and back to _here_ and _now_. Renee watches his movements with a careful gaze. She smiles at him when she sees his attention return.

“Maybe you should start by being honest with him. Tell him what you’re feeling and why. I really think that would help, if not just for your own peace of mind. Let him surprise you some more. It seems like it might be a good thing.”

Andrew runs a hand through his sweat-drenched hair and exhales a ragged breath.

“Your faith in humanity disgusts me.”

Renee’s eyes light up and she raises a hand to send a mocking punch into Andrew’s shoulder. “My unwavering faith is the number one reason why you adore me so much. Ready for round two?”

It’ll eat up another hour of Andrew’s time, so he heads back toward the mats with Renee by his side.

 

◎

 

It’s the 72nd visit, and Andrew’s still not counting. He’s burning through his second cigarette in an hour and absently rubbing at his left forearm. Occasionally he feels King bump into him as the cat rolls around in Andrew’s bed with a piece of cardboard flailing between his paws.

Neil isn’t home, and for that Andrew is thankful. He’s taken a few days off from work and seeing other humans in favor of spending time in his own headspace. His thoughts had been a little foggy for a while and he’d needed the time and room to sort things back into their rightful categories. He needed to consider the _what’s_ and the _why’s_ and the _what next’s_.

His eyes linger momentarily on the paper bag that’s shoved in the corner of his bed, Roland’s voice echoing faintly— _It’s an off-brand kind, but as close as I could get. Are you sure about this, man? We don’t know if it’ll be like that stuff you were on, and that was prescription. I don’t want to see you fall into a bad place again.”_

Andrew’s not stupid. But he is self destructive. _It’s to prove I don’t need it_ , he tells himself. _It’s in case I realize I can’t live without it_ , he whispers to himself. It’s been a bad week. (A bad year. A bad lifetime. A bad world.) Little spots of good don’t do enough to mask the ugliness he feels coating his entire being. But he wants to try, for once maybe he can try and actually win something. For once maybe he could keep something.

 _It’s been a bad week, but it could still have spots of good_ , he thinks. He’s considering ordering a double-serving of something from a paper menu and texting Neil—chest clenched at the thought of finally addressing the _whatever_ between them, but strangely settled with the decision all the same—when he hears the slam of the stairwell door.

It’s an odd time of day for Neil or either of their additional neighbors to be returning home. Andrew stubs out his dying cigarette and makes his way to the door. Before he can reach the eyehole to investigate though, a sudden and insistent banging vibrates across the wall and floor. He has a sinking feeling he knows who might be on the other side, and isn’t too surprised to find a familiar face waiting for him when he cracks the door open.

Aaron must have gotten Andrew’s address and apartment number from Nicky. He’s not looking too pleased to find himself on Andrew’s doorstep but Andrew can’t help but raise an eyebrow in good humor.

“Well don’t you look familiar.”

His brother rolls his eyes and scoffs. “You have some nerve, leaving Nicky like that.”

“You have some timing. That happened two weeks ago. Is he still crying on the curb over it?”

Aaron uncrosses his arms and walks forward, as if he had intentions of entering the apartment. Andrew lifts a hand. “What do you want.”

“We need to talk.”

“You and I—“ Andrew gestures between their chests, his fingers almost grazing his brother. “Are not a we. You and I are two separate entities. You are far, far away doing your own nothing thing. I am here without you, and I quite like it that way. So tell me what you want so I can tell you to fuck off back to whatever hole you’ve crawled out from to bother me.”

Aaron purses his lips. “You’re such an asshole.”

He braces a hand along the side of his door. “Tell me something I don’t already know.” And then he slams it in Aaron’s face.

King is watching Andrew’s return from under a tangle of sheets. He swipes at Andrew’s feet as Andrew folds himself back into bed and aggressively lights a fresh cigarette. He texts Neil in an effort to avoid the oncoming collision, but he has a feeling it won’t do any good.

_Don’t come back to the apartment any time soon. I have an unwelcome guest you don’t need to meet._

If Neil is smart, he’ll take Andrew’s warning to heart. And yet, Andrew has a strong suspicion that Neil is just as stupid as he’d always assumed. So he waits, and while he waits he chain smokes three more cigarettes and allows King to use his hand as an attack toy.

He hears the sound of Neil entering the hallway, can tell by his careful steps and the way he slows the stairwell door down so it doesn’t slam as hard. The voices are muffled, but he knows that whatever words are being exchanged won’t be very welcoming. He sighs and gets up from his bed.

When a body crashes into the wall with a rather loud _thunk_ , he walks a little faster to the front door. Swinging it open, he finds Neil pressed against the plaster with his hands gripping Aaron’s as they hold his shoulders back. Aaron is growling in Neil’s face, spitting accusatory questions that have Neil’s hackles raised and Andrew thirsty for blood.

“Ok, time’s up! I’m done with you and your trespassing act.” Andrew crosses the hall and clenches an angry fist into the fabric of Aaron’s shirt. He yanks him off Neil and pushes him toward the stairs. “Get the fuck out of here, or else I’ll have to break that pretty face of yours.”

Aaron stumbles and turns to face Andrew. He switches to German in an effort to keep Andrew’s attention. “Does he know what he’s dealing with, huh? Did you tell him about Drake and how fucked up things are for you? Is that why he’s lurking around? Nicky said he’d kissed him, so it’s obvious it’s not just friendly conversation he’s after.”

Andrew clenches his fists and holds himself back from landing a solid punch into his brother’s jaw. He catches Neil preparing to step away from the wall, but he darts a glare that tells Neil to _just stay put_. His sleeves fall on uncovered skin and he regrets not having the weight of his knives against his forearms.

“He’s probably just taking advantage of you and you don’t even see it, Andrew. He’s got you leaving your cousin crying outside of bars. He had a black eye for a whole week! You’re picking some stranger, a potential sexual predator over your own blood. As usual, putting family dead last. _Literally_.

“Who found you bleeding and fucked up after Drake got his last hands on you? Who almost went to _prison_ for taking care of that cocksucker? And here you are. It’s like everything you’ve done, everything I’ve done or Nicky’s done has been pointless. Who’s going to take care of you this time, Andrew? Because although we said we were done, deal over with—Nicky’s not like that. He can’t help it. For some reason, he still thinks you’re family and he’s going to _tear himself apart_ if you end up in the same position again.”

Aaron shakes his head and prepares himself for a second go-round, but is quickly cut off by Neil.

“Excuse me if I’m intruding on something personal here, but I need to simply say as nicely as I can that you’re incredibly out of line with about 75% of what you just said.” Andrew tilts his head as he stares Neil down, more than a little taken aback. Aaron’s mouth falls open with surprise, but remains voiceless.

_This sneaky son of a bitch._

“I don’t know what you and your brother have been through, and I’m not saying I know more about your lives than you two do. But Nicky pushed himself on _me_ that night. Andrew warned him to keep his hands to himself, and Nicky was too drunk to keep that in mind. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be punched, maybe he didn’t need to be left alone for however long it took you to get there, but it seems that Nicky’s a grown fucking person and should be able to take care of himself. As for whatever is going on between Andrew and me—that’s between Andrew and me, and nobody fucking else. If you’re so concerned about who I am as a person, and who I am to Andrew, maybe you should ask me your damn self instead of coming to our building and shoving strangers into walls. If you’ve got a problem with me, maybe you should fucking say so to my face, instead of throwing personal shit back at Andrew that you obviously meant to hurt him with. So go ahead, if you’re so opinionated. I am perfectly fluent in English, German and French. Take your pick.”

Aaron can only stare in abhorrent shock, eyes darting between his brother and Neil. Andrew lets out a heavy breath and claps his hands.

“Oh, Neil. Aren’t we continually full of surprises.” He points a hand to the stairwell and sends one last pointed glare Aaron’s way. “I believe we’ve heard just about enough from you tonight. You and I are done, so bye now.”

He doesn’t wait for any sort of response for Aaron. As he turns to walk back into his apartment, he tosses over his shoulder, “Come on, Neil. Let him scamper on home to his nurse-in-training.”

Neil closes the door behind him and they both listen to the sounds of Aaron stomping away and the reverberating slam of a heavy door. If Neil notices Andrew’s shaking hands, he doesn’t say anything, which is probably for the best. Andrew wasn’t in any mood to have to redefine his boundaries to Neil. He pulls a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and sets it on the kitchen counter. Neil approaches him slowly, his face holding back a string of emotions that Andrew doesn’t want to interpret.

“So. You have a twin?” Andrew unscrews the bottle and takes a hefty swig. The clear liquid is dry and sharp. It’s numbing enough to allow Andrew the room to slowly start unclenching every tense muscle in his body. Neil takes the bottle when Andrew hands it off to him and watches Andrew wipe his mouth.

“So. You understand German.”

He grins and it very much irritates Andrew. “ _Ja_.”

“Hold back your smart-mouthed jokes for a bit,” Andrew says, immediately not thinking of how Neil’s voice sounded in a foreign tongue. “I need you be an honest listener, Neil. Will you do that?”

Neil begins nodding, quick to vocalize, “Yes. I—”

Andrew raises a finger to float an inch away from Neil’s mouth. “When I say listen, I mean listen. You let me talk for now, and then it can be your turn. Okay?”

Neil nods, his fingers tightening around the handle of liquor.

“Aaron and I didn’t know each other existed until we were teenagers. Our _mother_ gave us up when we were born, but then had enough last-minute regret to grab one of us back. Aaron was the lucky pick, and I was shipped off to home after home. Didn’t know either of them existed until around the time I got sent to juvie. Then I was forced to reintegrate and had the wonderful pleasure of learning what a lovely piece of work she was. Heavy with the hands and loose with the drugs. Aaron was a miserable little canvas of her destructive making. But then she died in a convenient car accident. I haven’t missed her for a single second.”

Neil’s eyebrows rise a little and he takes a long sip of his own from the bottle. Andrew watches the way his throat moves with every gulp, and uses this as a distraction from all the ugly thoughts trying to hammer their way through Andrew’s skull. They’re beginning to swarm and he can feel himself start to drown down, down under the weight of endless thoughts and he just—

Andrew takes the bottle from Neil’s hands and moves a step closer. Neil allows Andrew to guide him backwards with shoo-ing motions until his body settles against the kitchen cabinets. Andrew nudges his bare feet against Neil’s shoes.

“My brother takes after my cousin sometimes, what with the loose tongue and pocket full of secrets they have no right to be spilling. I need you to know, I’m not one for regret or guilt. My past is my past, but it’s not pretty. I’ve done things that might not settle well in your stomach, but they were all for reasons that make sense to anyone with a brain and a code of ethics. Are you following me?”

“Yes,” Neil nods again. His shoulders are relaxed and his eyes focused on Andrew’s face. Andrew wants to pull him closer but flexes his hand instead, the want rolling off him in steady waves. The want for something comforting and safe and Andrew doesn’t know how to _stop it_.

“You get two questions and that’s it. Ask wisely.”

Andrew doesn’t have any expectations, he’s going in blind and it should be terrifying. It _is terrifying,_ but at the same time he feels a strange sense of calm, as if this is the next tipping point. As if this is the moment that he’ll know if all of _this_ has been worth it.

Neil hesitates for a moment before locking his eyes with Andrew. “Who was Drake?”

He holds back the shudder that fights to take control of his body. He bites it back with eyes clenched shut and wills himself to not think, not see, not even touch those memories for a single second more than necessary. His eyes blink open and he focuses on how bright and blue the rings around Neil’s pupils are. They are unwavering and he uses them to stay anchored as much as possible.

“An ex-foster sibling who liked to put a whole new meaning to ‘brotherly love’. He died a few years ago. Had his head smashed into with a desk lamp. It was ruled an act of defense, since his killer walked in on him while he was raping his victim.”

Neil’s face flashes through a set of emotions. Andrew feels the discomfort writhing around in his stomach and he braces himself for whatever pointless reaction Neil decides to settle on. A hand reaches for Andrew’s forearm, but he quickly knocks it down.

“Don’t. Just.” Andrew runs his own hands up and down his arms, from shoulders to elbows, palms clammy and cold. “I need a minute.”

Neil leans back against the counter and waits. The waves hit Andrew like they’re gaining momentum. They trickle numbness down his body, starting from the top of his head until it sprinkles down, down toward his ankles. His hearing muffles in and out until a tinny humming makes everything seem hazy and off kilter. Either that or he’s not breathing nearly enough air to keep his racing heart from exploding out of his chest. Andrew keeps rubbing and rubbing, until the numbness is focused to his arms and he can begin to make out the soft whispers of a voice.

“—before games for a while, I couldn’t even walk on the field without freaking out. It was like he’d ruined me forever and using the worst possible form of torture he could hit me with. Dan and Matt worked with me for weeks, sitting me on the benches and just talking to me about everyday things, making me eat meals by the court, even doing homework. Eventually I was able to walk to the center of the court without even thinking about him and…Andrew? Are you back?”

Andrew swallows a few times to clear out his cottonmouth. “I’m having a panic attack, and you’re talking about exy? Fucking junkie, unbelievable.”

There’s a touch of relief in Neil’s smile and if Andrew had the energy, he’d smack it off. Instead he lets himself scuttle a few inches closer until Neil’s face is a breath away.

“You have one more question you can ask.”

Neil shrugs. “We can postpone. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I told you not to come. You must either actually be the biggest idiot, or tragically suicidal. Where’s that ‘I'm a runner’ instinct you're always talking about?”

“It sounded important, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with it on your own.”

“I’ve been on my own for a long time, Neil. I can handle myself just fine.”

“I know you have, and I know you can. I just didn’t think you had to.”

“I don’t think you’re listening. I _like_ being alone.” Andrew snarls a little, trying to emphasize how fine he can appear in the face of his fears. Neil shrugs again and smiles with one corner of his goddamned mouth.

“Yeah, but I get the feeling that you also like _me_.”

Andrew’s hands aren’t shaking into a million pieces anymore and he can feel the warmth from Neil’s chest filling the scant inches between them. “That smart mouth of yours gets you into all sorts of trouble, doesn’t it.”

“Indeed. I’ve got many stories. Would you like to hear some?”

Andrew lets Neil lead them to the bed, where they sink into the mattress and stare at the ceiling while Neil talks about Riko’s favorite psychological and physical forms of torture. Andrew lets his breaths come _in and out_ , _in and out_ as Neil rattles on about how near the end Neil was getting mouthier and Riko more creative in associating an exy court with pain and fear.

When Neil finally falls silent, Andrew glances over to evaluate the thinning space that separate their arms.

“You can ask your second question now.”

He can feel Neil’s arm flex, as if he’s considering moving it even closer to Andrew. He doesn’t though, and Andrew lets go of the breath he’d been holding.

“Why is Aaron so angry with you?”

Andrew isn’t sure if Neil will still want to lay next to him when he voices the long-winded story of reunited family members and the dark secrets locked up tight in the Minyard closets. He doesn’t feel any remorse though, he did not regret putting that _woman_ into her place. Not a day goes by where Andrew remains shamelessly proud of the fact that he stopped her from hurting Aaron, that he’d calculated the right night and the right moment to ensure she’d find her end in a car wrapped around a telephone pole. If Neil wants to stick around, it should be because he has all the information.

He should know who Andrew is. (It would only be a matter of time before Neil, like everyone else in Andrew’s life, would leave him, too. _Hands dealt, cards on the table, time to call your bets._ )

“You killed your mother.”

Andrew doesn’t respond.

“You saved Aaron, even though it meant killing your mother.”

“Fucking no ‘ _even though’._ She was no _mother_ ,” Andrew spits out. “She was no mother to me, and she treated Aaron like an inconvenient accessory. I would kill her all over again if I could.” _Because it saved Aaron. Not even though. Because._

Neil pauses a moment before exhaling softly. “Sometimes I think that, if given the chance, I would’ve killed Riko. Sometimes I wish I had. I think it takes a scary amount of strength to make that choice and live with it. It’s the dirty kind of justice the rest of the world can’t understand. But I get it, I think.”

Andrew drifts a hand to cross the inches of space between them and presses his palm against Neil’s chest.

“You’re suicidal and stupid and I hate you.” He grips Neil’s shirt and uses it to tug him closer. Neil doesn’t object to the movement, doesn’t decline Andrew’s request for a single bruising kiss, doesn’t say anything else until he’s ushered out the door 10 minutes later.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Andrew closes the door on his words because they sound too much like a promise that could easily be broken, because they sound like words that Andrew would hear repeated in his head like some sick kind of Neil-mantra he didn’t ask for.

 

◎

 

It takes Andrew two weeks of mulling it over—and two intense sessions with Bee in which he spends most of the time glaring at his own feet while she runs through all the potential scenarios that  _could_ happen if he did  _this_ versus  _that_ and so forth, and it’s frustrating but also so very tempting when he realizes the endless possibilities that could maybe happen—before he decides to up the ante on the Sharing Game.

They’re sitting with their backs to Andrew’s mattress, spooning into an assortment of half-eaten cartons of ice cream. Neil insists Andrew is being ridiculous with his rating system, and Andrew insists that Neil is an absolute moron.

Licking off a spoon coated in sticky chocolate chunks, Andrew points it at Neil’s face and says, “It’s your turn. But this time I want something specific.”

Neil sets down his carton and spoon to fully face Andrew. “Ok. What do you want to know?”

Andrew has heard plenty of stories, but now he wants to see the aftermath. He wants to see the evidence of Neil’s past, but not because he doesn’t believe him or anything. It’s something Bee told him the other day— _“You don’t want someone to save you, and you don’t want to save anyone else. We know that much. But maybe you need an equal. Maybe you need someone who has similar scars, who can understand when you need them close and when you need them to step away. Maybe that’s why you’re drawn to him.”_ —and now he can’t help but repeat those words to himself over and over.

_Not a savior, not an answer. Just something to share. Someone to share with._

It sounds like a fucking pipedream when Andrew lets himself think on it too much. A wistful hope for something and someone that could never truly exist. No one had ever stayed with him, no one had ever wanted him to come back. Why would that change now?

And yet. Andrew has always been a self-destructive mother fucker.

“See,” he says. “I want to see your scars. Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

Neil licks his lips as he moves to pull his shirt over his head. Watching with interested eyes, Andrew plants his spoon into the half-melted ice cream so he can study the terrain of Neil’s chest. There are marred areas, scars that are long and scars that are dark. There’s a large mark on his torso that peaks into a triangular shape and Andrew immediately recalls the story it belongs to, of when that bastard had struck Neil with a _hot iron_.

He sees a circular mark close to Neil’s shoulder and reaches over to trace it with his finger.

“What is this from.”

Neil doesn’t stutter. “A bullet.”

Andrew can feel himself frowning as he worries at the long-healed wound, as if he could find the echoes of pain if he presses hard enough. _Similar but not the same_ . _You and I have both been hurt in such savage ways._

Neil watches as Andrew looks his fill, lets him touch in careful places. Neil’s back is another map to survey, and Andrew is torn between studying the ugly traces of human destruction and embracing the natural landscape woven by skin, tendon and muscle. Exy may be a waste of time but it does wonders for the male form. A fingertip traces its way up Neil’s spine.

“I want to kiss you here, yes or no?”

Neil’s yes comes out a little strained, but Andrew knows it’s from the tightening in his pants and not because he’s doubting his own answer. Andrew places a single kiss at the base of Neil’s neck, a hand pressing fingerprints into Neil’s shoulder blade. He wishes he could reclaim Neil’s body with marks that trump the darkness. It’s a stupid wish, but it sticks in Andrew’s head nonetheless. He presses another kiss two inches away from the first.

“Andrew,” Neil whispers, a little breathless. “Is it your turn?” _You’re here. You’re here with Neil and it’s now, this is when you show him your own savagery._

They twist around to face each other. Andrew watches Neil watch him as he peels the black bands off his forearms. He wills himself to focus on Neil’s face, Neil’s eyes that grow a little and Neil’s mouth that moves from slightly open to a thin line. He keeps his eyes on Neil so that he can’t see the faint marks on his inner arms, the scars that run from wrist to elbow.

Andrew doesn’t need to remind himself of his lowest moments.

Neil navigates an imaginary path along Andrew’s arms with zig-zagging glances. He reaches a hovering hand up and whispers, “yes or no.”

Andrew quickly draws his arms into his chest.

“No.”

He's unwilling to offer Neil the same liberties, because these aren't the kind of scars that need care. These self-inflicted pains should weigh no one down but the person who sliced them in with helpless pleas for escape. Andrew can't let Neil soften these scars into his skin with light touches or careful kisses. He needs to live with his own shame, the only time he truly wanted to feel pain, to welcome death should it come.

Neil listens to Andrew, his hands finding refuge in his own lap. “Thank you, for sharing.”

 _Oh._ It's always the unexpected with Neil. Andrew thinks that at some point it won't send a rush down and through his chest, but here he is unable to stay in one spot. He crouches up and leans over until their faces are inches away.

“I would like to kiss you. Yes or no?”

“Yes, it's always a yes for you, Andrew.”

 _Always. It can't always be always._ “Don't be stupid again. It can't always be a yes.”

“Maybe not, maybe it will. But you can keep asking, and I'll keep saying ‘yes’, if that's what you want.”

The kiss is short but harsh, Andrew unwilling to fully give in to his escalating desire. This fucking _idiot_ has him grinding his gears in all sorts of ways, and he refuses to stall out. Before he steps away, he sucks a little on Neil’s lip, maybe just to draw out a moan, and maybe just to tease Neil into following him to the kitchen with the ice cream cartons in hand.

They replace lids and pack the cartons into the freezer. Neil hip checks Andrew a little as they move, and for that he earns the punch Andrew sends into his side.

“Is it my turn again?” The words sound innocent, but the heated gaze Neil smirks in his direction is enough to make Andrew want to hit him again. A little harder. A little more deliberately.

Andrew crowds Neil into the corner where the fridge meets the kitchen counters. “How much more are you willing to share with me, Neil? How much more until you figure out that I’m nothing but a big, scary mess?”

Neil shuffles his palms back to lean against the wood ledge.

“Big, huh? And you call me the liar.”

Andrew clicks his tongue but steps closer. “Answer me, Neil.”

“Everything, if that’s what it takes to let you keep me around.”

He hears the squeak of pain when he pushes Neil backwards, but Neil doesn’t do anything to derail Andrew’s motions. It takes two steps to press them chest-to-chest, his hand sweeping up to Neil’s neck so he can tug down enough for their noses to bump. Andrew feels wild with hunger, as if he’s had a part of himself leashed for a long time. And now he just _wants_ in a way that is absolutely unlike how he’d been with any other man.

Other men, like Roland or the other scraps he’d snared at Eden or when he’d first started experimenting behind closed doors at juvie. Those had been calculated, indulgent experiments to test limits and to prove to himself that sex could feel _good_ in the right ways. As long as he had control. As long as he called the shots. As long as there weren’t any feelings of fear or guilt or—

Their lips are warm and wet as they absorb the rough shocks of movement that scream an undying need to be _closer_. Andrew digs his other hand into the skin around Neil’s hip and lets his legs slot between Neil’s until they’re locked in a hold that doesn’t leave much room for confusion.

Andrew knows he likes getting other men off. Andrew knows that’s where he lets the pleasure come from, the idea that _I wanted to do this, I wanted you, you wanted me, and I made you feel that, that was mine to give and you allowed me to and_ — the voice in the back of his head that sounds creepily like Bee likes to remind him that it’s rooted in his need to associate sex with safety and mutual consent, so Andrew gets it. He gets why seeing men writhe under his touch gets _him_ off but—

Neil doesn’t make this easy to stop, not with his low moans and the way his hips keep mindlessly nudging forward. Andrew pulls back enough to bite at the inside of his cheek and find Neil’s gaze.

“Yes or no, Neil.” He leads Neil’s eyes downward to watch as the hand around Neil’s hip moves closer to the front of his zipper.

Neil stutters out a breath and squeezes his palms into fists as an anchor against the wooden cabinet.

“Yes.”

Andrew can’t stop watching his hand. His fingers tug the button of Neil’s jeans open and his heart races faster as his fingers slip down under the elastic of Neil’s briefs. Andrew feels powerful, he feels like he’s on the highway and he’s in 3rd gear with his right foot crushing the gas pedal into the floor and the engine is screaming at him to _clutch-shift-move into 4_ _th_ but he keeps climbing and climbing and—

The feel of Neil against his open palm and the sight of their bodies meeting under layers of clothing excite Andrew into thrusting against Neil’s leg a few times. Neil, the worthless wreck, is crying out soft iterations of Andrew’s name and hovering his lips against Andrew’s neck. He moves enough to let Neil reach the arch in his shoulder and he shivers as a tongue drags against his collarbone. He speeds up his hand’s movements into a rough and calculated rhythm, his thumb catching at Neil’s slit and quickly spreading the liquid he finds there.

Neil is pressing breathy kisses up Andrew’s neck and Andrew’s brain is close to stalling out. Neil’s sounds and heat and weight in Andrew’s hands and the way he can make Andrew shiver with just a huff of air against his skin—it’s overwhelming and it’s got him veering out of control. He wants to pull over, feels the hint of panic that screams _emergency break_ , he wants to keep accelerating faster and faster until he crashes into something solid.

His hand around Neil’s neck grips at his hair and yanks long and hard until he feels Neil come undone, warmth spreading around his fingers where he slows his movements around Neil’s dick. There’s a moment of peace where Andrew’s head is clear and he can focus on the way Neil’s lips are still pressing heated kisses to his throat. It’s something _nice_ and Andrew wants to sigh into it, he wants to push his hips into Neil and keep chasing, he wants to shift gears until they’re hurtling back down the highway, he _wants_ —

A sharp press of teeth against skin brings it all to a cold, startling end. Andrew yanks his hands away from the other body and takes as many steps backwards as he can manage without tripping. He can feel it welling up inside and he keeps his eyes wide open and awake as he tries to stay—

_You are here. This is your apartment. You live on the sixth floor. This is South Carolina. You’re here. This is happening right now. The person in front of you is Neil Josten. You wanted to jerk him off, he said yes to it. It was good, it felt amazing until—_

Neil is still panting against the kitchen counter, but his face knowingly watches as Andrew runs his hands up and down arms and over bones. Andrew wishes he didn’t focus his gaze on Neil’s disheveled figure, but even with the panicked mantra running in his head, his body is still turned on and Neil just looks so used and wrecked and—

“No teeth. Just—no teeth.”

Neil nods slowly. “Okay. No teeth next time. I should have asked.”

Andrew shakes out the last of his bad thoughts. _I’m here now. I’m here and so is Neil._

“You say ‘next time’ like it’ll happen again.” He motions to Neil’s crotch before walking toward the bathroom. “You should go home and fix yourself, you’ve got come all over your pants.”

Andrew ignores Neil’s indignant response in favor of locking the bathroom door and leaning his forehead against the wood. He hears Neil move around, but not leave. Careful steps come closer to the door and Andrew double checks the lock.

“Do you really want me to leave?”

He breathes in and forces his eyes to stay open and focused on the locked door knob.

“Do you want me to stay?”

He feels his face flush and swallows back a curse. “Yes.”

“Can I keep talking?”

He runs a hand across his eyes and whispers the curse this time. He hears Neil shuffle from behind the door. For a second he wishes he could see Neil squirm again. For a second he considers unlocking the door. It’s a very small second.

“Yes or no?”

Andrew’s heart beats wildly in his throat and he feels his dick start to harden against all rational thought. _I’m here. This is happening now. I am safe. This can happen. I can do this._

“Yes,” because now he needs to know where this is going. There’s a door between them and at least Neil’s voice can keep him _here_ , _now_ and definitely coming. Neil murmurs and Andrew immediately unbuckles his jeans.

He keeps his eyes open and focused on a random corner as Neil begins to speak, and in his head he’s back on the road, ready to throttle his car into 4th gear, Neil in the passenger seat.

“I liked kissing your neck. You have very soft skin. It’s fair and freckly, and if you’d let me I’d like to lick every single one of them. Your freckles. Slowly. I’d also really enjoy kissing your ears. You have very nice ears, which isn’t really something I thought a person would consider liking, but I’d like to run my tongue around the edge of your ear. It might tickle, but I think you’d like it. And your chest. I’d really, really love to kiss my way down your chest. If you wanted me to, I’d kiss you everywhere.”

Andrew doesn’t make a sound when he comes into his hand, but Neil stops talking for a moment as Andrew catches his breath. He washes his hands off and scrubs at the blush that has bloomed across his cheeks before unlocking the door.

Neil is standing there, the hint of a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Should I stay or should I go?”

_Stay. Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay._

“Do whatever you want, but just know you smell like spunk.” He makes for the window and sees Neil shrug but follow. They crawl back across the bed, not a single part of their bodies touching. Two cigarettes burn over the sill and, when Andrew risks a glance, he catches Neil watching him with a wide grin smattered across his face.

“You’re at 99%.” He sucks away the rest of his cigarette and doesn’t say thank you when Neil presents him with a second one, already lit.

 

 

◎

 

[Andrew’s not counting anymore, because he’s telling himself he’s not counting on anything.

But if and when Neil finally lives up to his self-proclaimed reputation of _runner_ , Andrew thinks that the snapshots of moments he stows away in his head will suffice.

 

●

_Snapshot #3_

Morning. Smoking through the window, covers curled around his legs. Mug of coffee warm in his hand and extra sugary. King sitting by Neil as he stretches over his own balcony. The soothing sound of Neil reading from the worn pages of Andrew’s personal copy of _We Were the Mulvaneys_. Andrew catching Neil’s hesitation every time he reads a passage Andrew knows is underlined. Neil’s pausing questions that are either left lingering in the fresh air, or answered with Andrew’s short, decisive responses.

 

●

_Snapshot #6_

Midnight excursion to the corner store. Andrew picking up a handful of candy bars and scowling as Neil examines a cluster of bananas. The store clerk watching them with careful eyes, as they would any suspiciously rough-looking young men with hoods up and a cloud of sleeplessness hovering around them. Andrew catching himself mid-breath when Neil leans in close and mutters in German, “I would kiss you right here against the snack stand.” Neil stumbling backwards as Andrew shoves him and makes his way for the counter to pay. The warmth from Neil’s presence when he follows close enough to touch as they walk outside.

 

●

_Snapshot #8_

The apartment hallway. Neil catching Andrew before his shift at the bookstore. His hands wrapped around Neil’s wrists, holding them above his head as he presses Neil into the wall. The sounds of Neil gasping Andrew’s name as they kiss with warm hunger. Andrew inhaling the smell of coffee and the faint musk lingering on Neil’s skin from his morning run. The way he feels Neil’s eyes follow him down the hall when he turns to leave. The feeling that settles inside his skin, the faint itch of anticipation and excitement.

 

●

_Snapshot #11_

Much too early. The morning chill sends shivers down sweaty limbs. Andrew cursing with every step that he’d said _yes_ when Neil invited him running. Their steps steady and limber. Neil slowing his pace every few yards, as if he’s struggling to not just sprint his way through 6 miles. Andrew gritting back insults as he watches the way Neil’s shoulders roll beneath his shirt, how Neil’s thighs look with every stride, the intimate curve of—Neil laughing when Andrew stumbles just a little. Andrew’s sucker-punch to Neil’s stomach and their inevitable tumble to the ground. How warm and wet Neil’s arms felt when he pushed them down, how it felt to straddle Neil on that dirt path, how he’d growled into Neil’s mouth for a few filthy kisses. Andrew groping Neil over his shorts before sprinting off, insisting that _winner buys breakfast_.

 

 

They would suffice, he thinks.]

 

 

◎

 

It’s one of those summer storms that has the wind blowing at unnatural speeds and thunder that rushes in with immediate, wall-shaking responses. Andrew isn’t looking forward to trudging between buildings and his car in the downpour, but he also would rather not be fired from his only steady job. As he’s pulling on a long-sleeve shirt, he notices the trembling form of King hiding behind his boots.

Andrew considers his options for a few minutes. The cat had been skittish and crying with every rumble from the storm, and Andrew knows that Neil left over an hour ago. He could leave the cat in his apartment, where there is no food or litter box, while the thing is shaking and following Andrew’s every step, or—

The messenger bag is big enough to fit a fresh pack of Tasty Beef and a soft sweater for King to burrow into, as well as the cat’s shivering body. Andrew whispers to King as he carefully latches the bag and makes his way out of the apartment.

“Just a quick trip. I’ll text your idiot owner when we get to the bookstore. Stay put in there, I’ll have lots of shelves for you to jump around on. I’ll even find a box for you to shit in should you feel the urge.”

King isn’t too happy with the trip down the stairs or the car ride itself. But, when Andrew lets him out on the floor of the bookstore, his whiskers wiggle with excitement as he noses his way past dusty stacks of books. Andrew quickly sends Neil a text— _took your animal to work because of the storm, it should live for the next few hours_ —and settles into the chair behind the register.

The storm rattles the front windows on and off for the next six hours. Any customers that enter are either escaping the rain or looking to coddle the fuzzy cat that manages to climb his way up and down the various shelves. Andrew says nothing to any of them, but manages to catch at least one video of a man trying to rub King’s head and being bit quite viscously for it. If Andrew were a more ridiculous person, he would attempt to fistbump the tiny white paws King flaunts across the counter. Instead he settles for some gentle scratches behind King’s ear.

When Neil doesn’t respond to Andrew’s text, it’s not too unusual. Andrew isn’t a militant texter himself, and he usually spends his time offering Nicky one-worded responses or rereading old messages between himself and Neil. It should be strange, though, that Neil wouldn’t acknowledge that Andrew had technically kidnapped ( _catnapped_ ) his pet.

So it’s absolutely unsurprising when Neil bursts through the door with less than an hour until closing, his face drenched in rain and panic. Andrew can only raise an unimpressed eyebrow as Neil stumbles to the counter.

“You’ll be cleaning that up,” he says, pointing to Neil’s muddy footprints.

“Andrew.” It takes him two seconds to realize that there’s a black lump curled up on the counter next to the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray. King blinks up at Neil, seemingly just as unamused by his owner’s damp presence. He pushes his soaked hair off his forehead and flicks the excess water to the ground.

“You realize this is a bookstore, right? And that flinging water around might be detrimental to the sole product of said store?”

Neil’s mouth is torn between sighing and laughing, but the relief radiates from his face. It takes him about 20 minutes to wipe off in the bathroom, and then an extra 10 minutes to properly clean all the rainwater and muck he tracked in. Andrew uses that time to cash out the register and set the alarm. Together, they lock up the store and trudge through the misty evening air for Andrew’s car. King growls tiny little threats from the messenger bag. The way Neil smiles down at it makes Andrew want to smash his fist through a window.

Andrew pushes his way into Neil’s apartment (and it might be the first time Andrew has ever actually stepped inside, but neither of them say anything about it). He finds Neil’s phone laying on the counter, the screen dead to the world. _Of course_ , he thinks, _I’m associating with an absolute idiot_.

Once King is settled onto the bed, Andrew bullies Neil toward the bathroom. “Alright, Aquaman. Strip before you catch pneumonia.”

“Let me guess: it would be a shame for me to die before you could get your hands around my neck?”

Andrew ignores him and turns on the shower. He watches with still eyes and a racing heart as Neil peels off the wet clothes. His gaze skips around the various spots and scars, admiring the way they weave this story of strength and stubbornness. Remarkably so _Neil_ that Andrew almost wants to pull out his phone for a picture.

They don’t say anything when Andrew pushes Neil into the tub and under the spray. When Andrew toes his shoes off and climbs into the shower to crowd Neil against the tiled wall, Neil doesn’t question a thing. When Andrew falls to his knees, looks up and says, “I want to suck you off. Yes, or no?”—Neil can only say, “Yes.”

The weight of Neil on his tongue sends shivers down Andrew’s back, and he relishes the taste of it, the smell of it, the sound of Neil struggling not to speak or move. He wraps a hand around the base of Neil’s dick and works his mouth around it until lips meet fingers. Tiny, half-aborted thrusts push Neil deeper and Andrew uses his spare hand to pinch at Neil’s thigh. He thinks of all the things he’d like to tease Neil with, all the ways he could straddle the line between _give you everything_ and _keep it just out of reach_. His tongue swirls around the head and sucks until he hears a choked groan escape Neil’s mouth.

Neil’s fingers start to scramble along the wet tile, as if trying to grip onto something, anything. Andrew’s head is swimming in the pleasure of having Neil _so_ _vulnerable, so strung out_ and the panic of _don’t let him touch, don’t give yourself over_ until he has to pull away. He needs to breathe, he needs to stop and just think for a moment. Neil’s chest is flushed from the warm water and arousal. His thighs are shaking softly and he’s laser-focused on Andrew’s face. Andrew locks their eyes and licks a stripe up Neil’s hard cock. Neil’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t break from their gaze. He’s waiting, patient and open and so willing to let Andrew take the wheel with every move.

It’s decided like that. Andrew grabs for Neil’s hand and plants it into his hair. He feels fingers gently flex against his scalp.

“You can keep them here,” he says, motioning for Neil’s other hand. “But just here.” Neil nods and finds a careful grip on Andrew’s head. Fingertips scratch soft pleas of encouragement and his thumbs rub a tender _thank you_ above Andrew’s ears. A strange bubble of fear festers in Andrew’s throat, but instead of a fear of _what could he do to me, what could I do to him_ , Andrew thinks that maybe it’s _what have I found, what could I lose, what is he doing to me that I will keep wanting, and wanting and wanting more—_

He lets Neil come in his mouth, swallowing with the smallest hint of pride as he watches Neil slowly collapse to the floor. Andrew can’t help but shove a hand down his wet pants and concentrate on the taste of Neil on his tongue, the way he can still feel Neil’s dick against his inner cheek, how it felt when Neil’s fingers clenched in his hair when he came, how one hand is still thumbing at the skin above his eyebrow. Andrew grips at Neil’s hand and pumps himself faster. He uses his hand to press Neil’s into his head until he thinks he could find fingerprints embedded in his scalp, a kind of hidden proof that he’d always have a piece of Neil branded on him.

When he comes, it’s like being slammed into the ground. Everything is coated in a numbing haze, and Andrew feels himself slide Neil’s hand forward to press against his lips. He tastes Neil’s skin like it’s the most decadent flavor, sucking and tonguing at the open palm. As he rises and joins Neil under the cooling spray, he wishes that they could stay there—hot, open-mouth kisses, Neil’s hands cradling his head, his fingers gripping at Neil’s shoulders.

Eventually, he steps out and steals a towel so he can make his way back into his own apartment.

Ten minutes later, Neil knocks at his door with an offering of fresh hot chocolate. He lets Neil in and doesn’t think about how softly their lips meet. He doesn’t think about how he makes room for Neil in the pile of blankets on his mattress. He doesn’t think.

But he feels. It’s not as scary as he thought it would be.

 

 

◎

 

Of course, it was only a matter of time until time ran out.

 

◎

 

  
It’s too early for the banging and yelling, he thinks. Usually their neighbors are quiet and unobtrusive, and Andrew knows for a fact that Neil has already left for Palmetto. The new Foxes would be arriving in just a few weeks time, and Neil is starting to get antsy about training schedules and other boring things.

Andrew’s ready to hurl a few choice words or at least shine a blade at whoever is causing such a commotion at 8 a.m. But when he swings his door open, he runs out of steam.

Kevin Day, starting striker for the No. 1 exy team in the country, has his fist raised to pound again at Neil’s door. He, just as surprised it seems, turns to stare at Andrew with a mouth half open. Andrew gathers himself enough to cross one arm and flip a quick knife in his other hand.

“You’re trespassing.”

Kevin scowls and steps closer. “Minyard. So you and Neil are neighbors. That explains it.”

“Doesn't explain why you're here.”

Andrew meets Kevin’s glare with every ounce of energy he can muster. He and Day were both more than aware who would win in a battle of wits as well as brawn, but stupid is as stupid does.

“When does Josten get back.”

Andrew shrugs. “Whenever he gets back. I wouldn’t wait around though. Might get boring for you.”

Shaking his head, Kevin kicks at the baseboard by Neil’s door and says, “Well. Should’ve known he’d stand me up. It’s what he does best. Tell that asshole that my people are working to prepare a statement, so he needs to make a decision sooner rather than later. And remind him that there’s only one right choice, so if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll say yes to the transfer.”

Kevin turns and walks down the hall without so much as a farewell. Andrew stands in the doorway longer than necessary, arms crossed tight against his chest and eyebrows slanted at a dangerous tilt. He listens to the echoes of footsteps from the stairwell.

_That sneaky son of a bitch._

 

◎

 

He needs to be anywhere but back in that apartment. Needs to be doing anything else other than waiting and thinking. He needs to be not thinking at all, which is why he responds to Nicky’s texts and they arrange to meet up later that night. Their old haunt Sweeties is just getting busy as they’re led into a two-seater off to the side of the restaurant. Andrew orders the waffle special and reminds the waitress to bring a fresh bottle of syrup. Nicky fills Andrew’s silent spaces with his chatter, arms waving about in an effort to hide his obvious anxiety.

As Andrew lets Nicky rattle on about the abhorrent activities that seem to take up normal people’s lives, he doesn’t think at all about his own _little things_ or _last weekend_ s—

 _Blah blah blah,_ “...and I found this beautiful new duvet cover that matches this painting we have and…”— _“In case King gets stuck here again,” Neil had said in explanation, extending a small bowl and spare litter box across the doorway_ —“...really into trying these new recipes, and he’s getting so good at the curry chicken…”— _containers of pho open all over the floor, Neil slurping and cringing because he’d poured in too much sriracha—_ “...which is funny because the cute bank teller keeps winking hello to me and it’s…” _—the way Neil’s lip curls up on one side when he first sees Andrew, the way neither of them need a vocal greeting—_ ”...because last weekend, Katelyn and I went to a Paint and Pour and I should show you a picture of our terrible depictions of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night,_ it was…”— _last Saturday when Andrew had absolutely not watched Neil spread out his exy playbook to write careful notes, but he had begrudgingly allowed Neil to take his marker and doodle plays and sketches onto his legs and then up his arms, and now marker ink stains his sheets from when he’d dragged Neil to bed and taken him apart moments later_ —“...see, Andrew? Andrew, are you listening?”

Andrew grits his teeth and nods along absently. _Stop. Thinking. Of. Him._ He looks down at the photograph on Nicky’s phone where the focus appears to be more on two fingerprint-smudged glasses of wine instead of the shitty paintings of— _a photograph showing King stretched out in the sunlight, his paws curled and his eyes closed and his face ecstatic with sleepy pleasure, and Andrew’s chest is expanding with it as he stares at Neil’s text that just says: ‘warm’._

Their food arrives, and Andrew snaps back to the restaurant. Nicky’s hopeful smile screams across the table, as if he hadn’t noticed Andrew’s distant more-than-usual grumpiness. They tuck into their meals with mutual silence. The bottle of syrup is fresh, and Andrew wastes no time in squeezing out at least a quarter of it over his waffle jamboree.

“Hey, I’m really glad you agreed to meet up,” Nicky says after a few minutes of quiet bites. He’s twirling a utensil in both hands, his eyes darting around as he picks his words. “I’ve been meaning to apologize in person, you know. About the other night. I was really drunk, which isn’t at all an excuse, I know. I really didn’t mean to overstep. And I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. To you and your friend. Could you tell him that for me?”

Andrew stabs a scrap of syrup-soaked waffle and shoves it into his mouth. His eyes stay focused on Nicky, though, waiting for his cousin’s gaze to finally meet his. He chews and soaks in the sugar, watching as Nicky, face flushed and eyes watery, pleads with him in choked whispers.

“I’m sorry, Andrew. I am. Please forgive me.”

Scowling, Andrew flicks his fork at Nicky and whips a trail of syrup down his face. “Stop using those words, you know I hate when people get all desperate and emotionally manipulative.”

Nicky tosses his head back and laughs softly as he reaches for his napkin. He knows this is as close as Andrew will get to verbally accepting any apologies. “How could I forget—you’re immune to empathy.” Andrew rolls his eyes and continues eating.

“I also wanted to apologize for Aaron.”

His fork clatters onto the plate as his whole body instantly goes rigid. “Don’t,” he warns Nicky.

“I—Andrew, I have to. He told me what he said to you and—he, I mean. He was way out of line of course, the way he said it all, and just. You know how he’s all weird about that stuff, right?”

An eyebrow shoots up as Andrew tries to process this statement. “You mean the homosexual stuff? Or the ‘my brother was being raped when I walked in on it and killed the guy’ stuff?”

Nicky, flustered by Andrew’s frank statements, drums his fingers on the table and stammers. “It—he, you know he cares, he just—after, when.” He heaves a heavy breath before trying again. “After everything that happened, you know. With _Drake_.” Nicky whispers the name, as if the lowered volume will prevent the wave of shivers that roll down Andrew’s spine.

“After all of it, and the trial. Listening to it all. Everything you said, Andrew. He was a wreck, you know that. I mean, I was, too. But he—. And now he’s just—this is how he shows he cares. And it’s fucked up, and it’s not ok, but. He cares? I don’t know, I can’t excuse what he said or how he said it. But. I wanted you to know that, in his own way, he feels badly. Most likely. I mean, somewhere inside him. I’m sure of it.”

Andrew wipes his knife off on a napkin so he can spin it around his fingers. Nicky, legs bouncing and jarring the table every few seconds, watches the knife’s movement with frowning eyes.

“You don’t have to accept his apology. But if you would, if he does try to apologize, would you try in turn to just talk to him? Maybe help him understand?”

He stabs the knife down hard enough to make it stick up in the quartered remains of a soggy waffle.

“Andrew, he’s your _brother_ . And he’s, well. He’s family. _We’re_ family. We get it wrong sometimes, but we love each other at the end of the day _._ If Aaron could just see it how I do. You could try to explain from your point of view? I mean, I would try myself but. ”

He doesn’t respond. He’s too busy staring at the mutilated remains on his plate, the fruit shoved off to the edges and lines of syrup smattered like a blood trail. A murder scene.

“Andrew, you know how much I—I admire you so much. You’re so strong, Andrew. I don’t know how you do it. Just, after everything— I can’t imagine, if that—that happened to—to me, or. I don’t know what I’d do.”

“If what.”

“What?”

“If what had happened to you?” Andrew watches Nicky shake his head as if trying to dismiss the shift in conversation. “You can’t even say it.”

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud.” Nicky wrings his hands and tries for a few seconds to push the words out from his throat. He gives up with a sigh. “I don’t think I can.”

Andrew grips his hands into fists and closes his eyes. _You are here. You are here and you can stay calm._ He shoves the tension down, down and refocuses his gaze onto Nicky’s queasy face.

“Rape. It’s called rape, Nicky. That’s what happened. What you can't say and what my _brother_ can't understand.” Nicky flinches and tries to say something. _Some other useless words from another person who doesn’t fucking get it._

He leans across the table and snaps his fingers in front of Nicky’s nose. “You want me to try? Great. I’m going to be honest with you, so listen up. I was raped. More times than I can count, by more than one person. They weren’t kind, they weren’t gentle. Many of them enjoyed seeing me bruised and bleeding. Some even wanted it to feel good for me. They’d say, ‘You like that? It’s good, isn’t it?’ The worst times were when it did feel good.”

He watches Nicky’s eyes well with tears, his shoulders jolting occasionally as he holds back his hiccuping sobs. Andrew shoves his hands under the table to hide his own shaking fists, but he powers on.

“You say I’m strong, that you admire me and how I’ve made it this far. You think I’m some kind of success story. That everything is ok now. Guess what, Nicky? I’m not ok. Nothing about any of this will ever be ok. I live with this reality every fucking day. I live, and that alone is hard enough. It happened to me, and I’m the one who remembers every detail of it. So either fucking say what it is, or don’t say anything to me at all.”

The silence that follows is louder than the bustling noise of the crowded dining room. Nobody appears to be paying attention to them, although to be honest Andrew couldn’t care less if everyone in a fucking five-mile radius had heard him. He thinks of his brother and his stomach churns. _None of this is ok. Nothing is fair._

“Of course. You’re right, I’m—”

“I can’t help what Aaron thinks or says about me. So if that’s how he feels about it all, if he's choosing to see it how he wants to, it’s best if he just stays away. Got it?”

Nicky sighs but nods his head in reluctant agreement. The waitress, unsure about her timing, tentatively approaches to move away their plates. Nicky mimes the signing of a check and smiles his thanks when she says she’ll be right back with their bill.

They’re walking out to their respective cars when Nicky clears his throat and asks, “So. Is that where you met Renee? Was it a…rape victim support group?”

Andrew rolls his eyes and reaches for his keys. “Don’t ever call me a victim again or I’ll cut your damned tongue out.”

Nicky barks a weak laughs and tries again. “Ok. Rape survivors support group? Or sexual assault. I—. I’m trying, Andrew, please understand. Please help me.” His face is torn between an attempt at cheerful hope and thinly withheld grief. Andrew can't help but remember this as the look Nicky had given him when he'd begged to be allowed a seat in the courtroom.

“Stop with the ‘please’s’ for Christ’s sake, you know I fucking hate that,” he says, sticking a cigarette between his lips. He keeps his tone light, though, because Nicky _is_ trying. And Andrew is trying, too. _Try harder, you fucking asshole._ “And no. It wasn’t.”

He doesn’t elaborate any further, and Nicky accepts his response. “So she’s really leaving, huh?”

Andrew stares at the roof of his car. He flicks his lighter a few times to play with the flame before lighting his cigarette. Nicky nods and shuffles closer. Andrew waits until their shoes are nearly touching and Nicky’s face is bent down. He exhales a plume of smoke in the inches between them. Nicky coughs dramatically, but smiles through it.

“I’d come down there,” he says, eyes catching Andrew’s. “If you asked. If you wanted. I’m sure I could convince Eric to move. It’s kind of nice. Quiet. I mean, only if you thought you’d like our company. You know I’d do anything for you, right? That you just have to ask?”

Andrew can hear Renee’s voice in the back of his head—” _You don’t know how to let yourself be happy...You have low expectations for everyone, including yourself”_ —and he considers what it would mean to ask someone to stay. To ask for someone to stay for no reason other than to stay with _him_.

Nicky’s eyes are shining with those happy, bubbly emotions that confuse Andrew. He flicks ash onto Nicky’s jacket and pushes him away so he can open the car door.

“Shut the fuck up and go home to your European sugar daddy, you big baby.”

Laughing, Nicky shoves at Andrew’s shoulder. “Ok, but really. Just ask if you need me for anything.”

Andrew’s slamming his door shut and rolling down the window when Nicky dips his head in through the opening. He presses a sloppy kiss to Andrew’s forehead and an embarrassingly high-pitched cry of outrage slips out of Andrew’s mouth before he slices a swift punch to Nicky’s arm.

As Nicky leaps away and toward his own car, he laughs in genuine joy and shouts across the parking lot for all to hear.

“Bye bye, dear cousin! Drive home safely! Kiss that gorgeous cat-next-door for me! And that hot neighbor man, too, if you dare!”

 

 

◎

 

The thought crosses his mind later that night, and he instantly hates himself a little bit more for thinking it. He takes the thought, strangles the life out of it, smashes it upside the head with a heavy pipe for good measure. He then buries it in a 6-foot-deep hole and spits on the dirt for emphasis.

 _Fuck Neil_ , he thinks instead. _Fuck every inch of Neil’s lying, cowardly, running body. I can do this without him. I can survive on my own. I don’t need anybody else._

He knows this, he knows this more than he knows his own name. Years and years spent living with the truths that others can’t even stomach saying aloud. Andrew doesn’t need anyone or anything else.

 _But he wants it, he wants it, he wants_ him.

No.

_Everything is wrong, nothing is ok, but you’re fine the way you are. You are here and safe for now. Life goes on and the only person who needs you is right here._

Andrew tries repeating this new mantra over and over in his head. It almost drowns out the gasping breath of the not-so-dead thought ripping its way past the fresh dirt to whisper into his ear— _you want him, ask him to stay, make him yours_ .

  

◎

 

It’s easy enough to pretend like Neil's already gone. He keeps his window shut and forces himself to leave right after Neil does in the morning. He finds himself pretending that nothing is bothering him. The bottle of pills he picked up from Roland a month ago find a permanent home in his pocket, and he listens for the rattle and fingers the plastic lid throughout the day as he keeps pretending.

He makes it through three days like this. _This is how it'll be, so just get used to it._ It’s less than a week until he loses his sparring partner. It’s less than two weeks until he loses his neighbor.

Renee’s going-away party is being hosted by some friends of hers in a diner downtown. Andrew is conned into driving her there after their Thursday workout ( _their last workout_ ). He curses her bewitching smile that screams innocence on the outside, but actually says, _“You best do as I ask, or else I’ll cut you navel to chin.”_

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a little bit? You could meet my friends from my rec team. They’re really sweet.” Andrew grimaces at the thought—why is everyone fucking _obsessed_ with goddamn exy?—and shakes his head. “I’ll buy you lunch. C’mon Andrew. I’m going to miss you when I leave.”

Fuck the Peace Corps for stealing one of the only people in his life. Fuck Renee Walker for leaving him, just like everyone else. Fuck it all, he’s getting out of the car and following her into the diner.

When Andrew sees the familiar head of auburn hair sitting in the corner booth, he nearly turns right back around for the exit. Renee’s got a vice grip on the end of his sleeve, though, so he has no choice but to choke back his anger and keep moving forward. He paints his face in his best _I could not have a single feeling about anything right now so don’t you fucking dare to ask_ mask and lets Renee guide him into an empty chair.

“And this is my friend, Andrew. He drove us here.” Andrew listens to greetings that range from enthusiastic to mild curiosity. The strangers—two women and a man—seem to recognize Andrew not by name, but by other associations.

“Oh, this is the guy you spar with!”

“The one you met at that group?”

Andrew focuses his eyes and weighs the value in leaving in five minutes as opposed to five seconds. He deliberately ignores any questions and deliberately avoids looking in the direction of the silent person sitting across from him. _You’re here, you’re here, you’re here._

“And these are my friends from my rec team, Dan and Allison, and Dan’s boyfriend Matt, and this is Neil, who works on the college team Matt and Dan were on. Andrew?”

He’s weak. He’s angry and he’s weak. He looks up. Neil’s eyes are so blue and wide and full of questions, surprise and so very full of shit. Andrew shrugs his feigned disinterest and Renee interprets that as close to a response as she’ll pull from Andrew. She jumps into conversation with the other three. Andrew keeps his eyes locked with Neil’s.

“So Coach told me about Kevin’s offer. That’s amazing, Neil, but are you really going to take it?” Dan leans in toward Neil, stealing his attention. Matt slaps a hand across Neil’s shoulder and grins. “He fuckin’ better! How cool is that, to be offered a trainer position for the best pro exy team in the country! Kevin Day can be a pretentious dickhead, but the guy is a fantastic player.”

“50 bucks says Neil stays,” the blonde, Allison, adds without looking up from her phone.

“Oh, I’ll take that. Neil is too valuable to the Foxes to leave. And Coach would never say it, but he would be crushed if Neil left him to coach the team alone this close to the fall semester.”

Neil darts his eyes between his friends and Andrew. And Andrew can’t stop staring at Neil. He’s torn between calculating the most tender spots for dipping in the edge of a knife and cataloguing all the inches of skin he’d kissed just last week.

“I think this is the best opportunity for Neil to get back on the court himself, though. Imagine how good it would be for him to train with Kevin and the rest of his team! My mom says she’s seen athletes bounce back from worse injuries. It’s all about the heart of the game—if you’ve got it, you can overcome most anything.”

 _You were almost mine_ , he doesn’t say. _And now you’re going to leave me_ , he doesn’t say. (The worst part is that third voice making itself known, the one shouting, _Good, leave, get far away from me, become something instead of staying nothing. I'm just nothing, don't even look back. Go, go now, go, go, go_. He definitely doesn't say.)

It’s as if Neil can understand him regardless. The bastard’s face falls and Andrew can almost see the guilt oozing out of his silent mouth. _Good, feel guilty you fucking shit._ ( _Go. Go, go, go, go._ )

When Allison’s phone vibrates in her hands, she slams a palm into Dan’s shoulder. “Holy shit, Day is making an announcement. Get the host to turn the channel to ESPN, like, _now_.”

Matt jumps up and Dan immediately starts interrogating Neil. Andrew watches him frown and protest.

“I haven’t said anything to him yet,” Neil says, waving away Dan’s disgruntled questions. “I promise, I haven’t even decided yet.” And Andrew knows that comment was made exclusively for his benefit. He shifts his gaze away from Neil with a sharp jerk of his head.

When Matt shuffles back to the booth, he points their attention to the television a few feet away. The bartender is working with the remote and after a few curses manages to find the correct channel. Sure enough, Kevin Day’s face appears on the screen.

“...be a great asset to the team. We are honestly very excited to have his expertise for the upcoming season.”

An unseen reporter asks, “Is it true that the goal is to rehabilitate Josten’s injury under your observation, perhaps with the intent to add him to the roster within the next year?”

Kevin casually shrugs but smirks a rather charming and cocky smile. “I think that Josten knows what’s best for him and his aspirations. He will bring his talent to where I am and, with the right trainers and my supervision, I think it’s fair to say we could see him on the court in no time.”

The sound of Matt’s joyous cheering drowns out the rest of the interview. He reaches across the table to pull Neil into a tight hug, his hand thumping onto Neil’s back as Dan reaches in for her own congratulatory side-hug. Andrew can barely see Neil’s face from behind Matt’s bulky form, but he sees him struggling to be released.

He doesn’t wait for Renee’s questions or to listen to Allison’s disgruntled reaction to having lost a bet. Pushing the chair back with one sharp movement, he makes his way out of the diner and to his car. As predicted, he has Neil fucking Josten hot on his heels in no time.

“Andrew, wait. I was going to tell you, but not until I talked to Kevin, that bastard. I really wasn’t expecting him to assume and make this public, because it doesn’t matter. I—”

He spins around to stab a finger into Neil’s chest. “Because this doesn’t matter, right? That’s absolutely fine. Go join your number-one ranked team. Go, follow Kevin Day to the ends of the earth. You’re married to exy, remember? Go become the big hot-shot star you've always wanted to be.”

Andrew pauses for a second, his tone changing from a growling anger to something more tender. Something more final and sad.

“That's how it should go. Your name belongs on the back of jerseys. You belong on the road, on a court. Don’t get all emotional about this. I'm not anything to you, you're not anything to me. This,” he motions his hand between them. “This was nothing.”

Andrew leaves Neil standing in the parking lot. He slams his car door shut and spins his tires out as he drives off. He doesn’t spare a single glance to his rearview mirror.

He gets home and smokes two furious cigarettes out his window before he closes it. The lock snaps shut. He pulls out the bottle of pills from his pocket and chucks it at the wall. The plastic explodes open and the round pills scatter across the floor.

Andrew sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the mess.

He sits there and stares for a long time.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions/descriptions of more than one panic attack, sexual contact that also causes said panic attack (triggers are discussed and no one intentionally crosses lines!), references to self-harm, references to past rape and physical abuse, conversations with people who can be considered "victim blaming" and/or not handling the topic very well, overall internal dialogue that pins between anger and self depreciation and unhealthy thoughts, consideration of abusing non-prescription drugs
> 
> OK GUYS. This chapter went through some serious edits, but in most part stayed true to my original intent. I did change SOME things that made me push certain events into part iv, which is good because YAY part iv will be LONGER and more INVOLVED. which is bad because I ONLY HAVE ABOUT 3K OF P4 WRITTEN. fuck my life forreal tho. please be aware that this will take me at least another week or two to even get written out, and then edits will need to take place. *crying emoji*
> 
> to be frank and honest, this chapter involves a LOT of internal dialogue that was plucked straight from my own brain. things that I've said or things I wish I had said to certain people, things that I didn't realize I had felt until I gave them to Andrew. I think one of the reasons why I've been so critical of this chapter is because I'm afraid that I made Andrew too much of myself. but I can't sit on this anymore and I seriously can't keep trying to fix every abuse of an adverb. so I'm just gonna post it. hopefully he will make sense to more than just me. 
> 
> please tell me what you think! you can leave me a comment here, or [visit me on the tumblr](http://clubbingattheclub.tumblr.com) (or both!). I've had a few lovely asks in my inbox in the past few weeks, and if you think you'd like to talk to me about anything Andrew or Neil have going on in their heads, just let me know.


	4. part four: august-september-october

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part iv: Neil's point of view, the months of August, September and October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 4 months, I've finally created what feels to be the most complete version of part iv!!!! I just want to extend a brief (to-be elaborated later) thank you to everyone who has read, added kudos, commented, and/or bugged me in my ask about this fic—my gratitude is inexplicable. I'll probably make a sappy post about how i feel later at work today, so yeah. 
> 
> warnings: brief mentions of past child and sexual abuse, some interaction with people who have unhealthy perceptions about abuse survivors, an abundant amount of me writing internal monologue with repeated themes and mushy metaphors. 
> 
> ps: check out the spotify playlist i made for this fic here: [x](https://open.spotify.com/user/tayofthetrees/playlist/5asziZemnQs2mQJUh8IBYy). i literally played it on loop when writing and editing most of the story, and i even have a word doc that explains how each song relates to the boys and their story.

 

⊗

It’s out of habit that he has a small duffle bag pre-packed and wedged in the closet by the front door. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, Neil will unload its contents and spread them along the floor. The inventory is usually the same: a few articles of clothing, a set of granola bars, a durable water bottle with a wide mouth, a small cluster of toiletries that include a supply of hair dye. The heaviest object is a binder decorated with pages of old sports articles, and behind said articles knowing fingers could peel out slips of bills in varying amounts and from various countries. A beaten box of cigarettes houses his second most valuable asset: a collection of ID’s with every mask he has ever needed staring back at him. _Chris. Alex. Stefan._ _Abram._

Neil fingers the last ID he used before his mother died. _Abram_. He doesn’t think about her often, but he’s thinking about her now. She would be so furious with him. She would have hated how he’d spent his last few years. Tied down. Creating relationships. Falling for someone.

He shoves the flimsy plastic back into the carton and repacks the duffle bag with careful, methodical movements. King Fluff watches from his perch on the end of Neil’s bed, ears tented back with subtle suspicion. It’s as if he can sense that Neil is planning to do something reckless. As if he can sense that Neil is about to run. 

He reaches over to pet a hand down King’s back. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “Someone will take care of you.”

 

⊗

Andrew doesn’t come to the door when he knocks. Not counting their disastrous interaction in the diner parking lot, it had been about 4 days since they’d last spoken. He thinks about their last private moment together, how Andrew had shoved Neil out of his bed at 2 in the morning. Sleepovers weren’t allowed yet, which Neil suspects is due to the nightmares they both have at unpredictable intervals, so it was probably for the best.

He hoped, though, that someday. Maybe. Just the idea of waking up to find sunlight streaking across Andrew’s smooth cheeks tightens the knot inside Neil’s chest—a sharp ache of longing. He thinks of how soft and calm Andrew would look as he sleeps through Neil’s silent observations. He thinks of how gently his eyes could open, how easily they could reach across the distance and touch lips. _“Good morning.”_

He sighs and knocks again and again. An ear pressed against the door tells him that there are no sounds coming from within. Was it impossible to consider that maybe Andrew wasn’t home? Only if he had left his car parked in the lot and walked elsewhere, which. Seems ridiculous, but Neil can’t tell anymore. Everything seems ridiculous at this point. 

Neil tugs a hand through his hair as he paces his way back into his own apartment. He has 8 hours to find Andrew and try to explain. He has 8 hours to make things as right as he can before he has to run. If he doesn’t find Andrew before then, if he can’t say what he needs to, everything would be utterly _fucked_. More fucked than it already was. Neil yanks a little harder and winces at the pain in his scalp.

A soft meow draws his attention to the window. King is sprawled along the sill, darting a paw between the small gap left between the window and the wooden surface. It’s enough space for a clawed foot to swipe through, but not enough for curious pets to wriggle out into the night air. Neil frowns at his cat, wondering if maybe the damn thing _could_ read his mind and wanted to find Andrew, too, when—

As if out of nowhere, a white pellet smacks onto the balcony with a sharp _tink_. King pauses before frantically swiping his paw as far as it can reach. Neil pushes the cat away so he can pull the window open. There’s more than one pellet laying on the balcony at this point and, when he picks it up, he realizes it’s a pill. Another one flies down and bounces off the railing. Neil watches it tumble down to the sidewalk and then swings his head up toward the roof.

Two familiar shoes are dangling over the edge of the building. It takes six seconds for Neil to shut the window again (much to King Fluff’s chagrin) and sprint out of the apartment. It’s two flights of stairs to the roof access door, and Neil is unsurprised to find a brick wedging it open.

Andrew sits along the edge of the roof, his hood up and smoke billowing away from his head. Neil makes his steps loud enough to notice, but Andrew doesn’t turn around or cease his actions. With one hand he holds a burning cigarette, the other clutching a handful of the white pills. With a small flick of a finger, Andrew drops a pill from his grip and watches as it bangs its way downward.

When he reaches the roofside, Neil taps his foot against the brick ledge where Andrew is perched.

“Oh,” Andrew says, feigning surprise. “Neil. I thought you’d be gone by now.” He doesn’t turn to spare a single look. Neil sighs and swings a leg over the side of the ledge to sit down.

“I have a flight in about four hours.”

 Andrew chucks two pills with a little extra force. “There it is. Neil ‘The Runner’ Josten, everyone. Living up to his name, exceeding expectations, etcetera etcetera.”

Neil taps the half-empty carton laying next to Andrew’s hip. “May I?”

 “Will you have enough time to finish it before you have to rush off into Day’s arms?” 

Andrew’s voice is layered with bitter sarcasm, but he nudges the pack toward Neil with the pill-clenching fist. The rhythm is familiar: pinch the filter between lips, snap the lighter on, inhale sharply so the edge catches flame. While the acidic smoke plumes upward, Neil watches as Andrew spills another pill down to the ground, and another. And another.

“I’m not ready,” Neil blurts. It’s sudden, and even Neil wasn’t expecting those exact words to come out. But there they are, hovering in the space between them. Andrew turns his head ( _finally_ ), his mouth a thin line, revealing no truths. But all Neil needs are his eyes.

“I want to be, I want this so much. I’ve never wanted anything more. But I can’t.” He keeps his gaze locked on Andrew’s and, even though the waves of panic are streaming down his back, he doesn’t want to move from this perch. He doesn’t want to grab his packed duffle bag and slide into a cab. He doesn’t want to leave Andrew’s side for one second. “I was going to tell you.”

Andrew tilts his head and squints his eyes with disdain. “Before or after you got on that plane.”

Neil takes a single drag off his cigarette, either for emphasis or for the moment to muster some courage. “I didn’t know how you would react. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.” He pats the cigarette to ash, his eyes focused on Andrew’s. 

“Let me explain. I never wanted anything more than exy for most of my life. Taking Kevin’s offer would mean having the safety and belonging and security I always dreamed of as a kid. It was about me wanting to succeed at something, to know that I wasn’t worthless or unneeded. I was _good_ at exy, and it was almost too much to handle when Riko took that away from me.”

He takes another drag from the cigarette, exhaling heavily before he finds his words again. “I think I know what heartbreak is supposed to feel like. I think I felt it when my mom died. And I’m pretty sure it’s how I felt when the doctor told me I’d never swing a racquet again. Both times almost killed me, almost killed any want or need to for me to keep trying at life. It was like all I could do was wake up and breathe, and even that was too much effort.”

Neil can remember how he’d fought Kevin tooth and nail (literally, tried biting his hand when Kevin had gripped his uninjured shoulder out of frustration and said, “stay here and _get better_ ”), yet ended up stranded on the Palmetto campus anyway. He can remember his sour interactions with Dan for weeks at the start of that first season. He can remember the stilted half-conversations Matt would force him into. He can remember silent meals shared in Wymack’s kitchen, their eyes silently screaming with a warring statement of, “No, _you_ fucking talk first.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever find something that could make me happy again. Not like how exy made me feel. Not like how I could feel at times when my mom wasn’t—well, was a little _less_ , you know?”

Andrew hasn’t said a word, hasn’t looked away from Neil. He raises one brow, which in Andrew-speak was the equivalent of waving an impatient hand. _Get to the fucking point, perhaps today?_

“Okay. What I’m trying to say is, I can’t knowingly put myself in that position again. I couldn’t control my mom’s death, I couldn’t control what Riko did to me. But I can decide this. And I choose this. I choose to stay.”

He sees the emotions flit across Andrew’s eyes. The subtle twitch in his brows and the way he can almost hear Andrew whisper with disbelief, _You’re coming back. You’re staying._

Then he shakes his head. A furious crinkle erupts across his forehead. “You’re a goddamn fool. I honestly cannot believe that you’re _monologuing_ to me right now. Talking around the point for fucking forever and when you finally say what you mean, it’s absolute bullshit.”

Andrew wars with the carton of cigarettes for a moment, his normally nimble fingers shaking with too much anger to help him grip a stick quickly enough. He looks back at Neil once he has the cigarette lit and a deep inhale in his lungs.

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Josten. Tonight you’ll get on a plane and you won’t come back. If you do, I will kill you myself. I always promised I would.”

“Andrew, I’m—”

“Fuck whatever you think you’re trying to put into mangled words. Take Day’s offer. There’s nothing here for you anyway. And don’t think for one second that there is.”

Neil stops Andrew before he can fully turn his face away. “You’re wrong. There’s more here than I ever thought I needed. There’s—” Neil runs a frantic hand through his hair and tries to pull Andrew’s gaze back onto his. “There’s books and morning coffee and sharing stories and a fucking cat who hates me, but adores you. And then there’s you. You’re here.”

He watches the little movements in Andrew’s face that betray every thought running through his head. The slight lift in his upper lip that says, _You’ll leave like they all do_. The furrow in his brow that says, _Just do it now and get it over with_. The stormy darkness in the center of his hazel eyes that whisper, _If I could, I’d never let you go_.

“I can’t figure out if you’re just stupid or if you’re exhibiting the most denigrating form of narcissism. No one likes a martyr, so stop sacrificing your dreams of being an exy god for settling into monotony here. Stop running from who you are.”

Neil clenches his fist and stomps his burned-down filter into the concrete ledge.

“That’s exactly my point. All I’ve done my entire life is run away. I ran away from my father. I ran away from my mother’s death. I ran away from Riko. I’ve wanted to run again the second I realized that Matt graduating and Dan leaving meant I would be here alone. I’ve been thinking about catching the next bus to any other city since April. But then you moved in and now, every time I leave and walk past your door, I think about you, and. And for the first time, I feel like I don’t need to run away. I feel like…”

His fingernails cut into his palm from how tightly he grips his hand as he struggles to blurt the rest of his confession.

“I feel like I’m running to something, if I stay. And I _want_ to stay, Andrew. It’s the right choice. For once, leaving—running? That’s the wrong choice. I want to stay with _you_. I don’t want to be somewhere else if you’re not there.”

Andrew’s narrowed gaze says, _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._  But the softened corners of his eyes are just as loud: _But I’m nothing_.

“I know I’m not nothing when I’m with you, Andrew.” His voice is solid and resolute. He knows he can do this, he can prove to Andrew that he means every word. “You and I push each other and support each other to be more than I ever thought was possible. I don’t want to do this if it’s not with you. This—” he motions between their chests, lingering his fingers inches away from Andrew’s collarbone. “This isn’t nothing. It’s everything.”

Andrew purses his lips and looks down off the roof.

“What would be so wrong if I stayed? What are you afraid of?”

Neil watches as Andrew, without looking back, grabs for his hand and brings it up to his neck. Neil’s fingers tremble when they catch the unsteady, rabbiting rhythm of Andrew’s pulse. It’s rapid and unseen by the human eyes, and Neil realizes it’s the perfect metaphor for Andrew’s hidden thoughts.

“Do you know why I’m up here.” Andrew doesn’t wait for Neil to offer an answer. “I’m terrified of falling. Not heights. Just the idea of plummeting down them and— ” He raises his fist, the one still clutching a few pills, and opens it. The white pieces are flung into the air and quickly find momentum until they scatter across the sidewalk seven stories down. “— that. Hitting the ground, smashing into reality and _feeling_. You should know more than anyone, Neil, just how painful it is to fall, to feel.”

Neil presses a finger into the skin of Andrew’s neck, thankful for being allowed this closeness and desperate for the ok to only get closer. Andrew’s fingers curl tighter around Neil’s and he uses this grip to tug Neil closer. They crash together, like Neil knew it would happen and like Andrew couldn’t help but keep his lead foot on the pedal. Andrew slams into him and eats away Neil’s whimper with teeth and tongue and a fierce hunger for more. Neil’s hands slip around Andrew’s head as he just takes and gives in a vicious, flowing pattern. 

“So,” Neil manages to mutter between breaths. “Does this mean you’ll let me stay?”

“I hate you,” Andrew hisses as he bites another kiss. “I hate you so much—” and another. “It makes me sick.” Another and another.

Neil moans and suddenly Andrew is shoving him down onto the dirty surface of the roof. He whispers a quick _yes_ as Andrew moves to straddle him, a leg slipping between Neil’s.

“Am I at 100% yet?”

“101. Which means you’ve reached maximum capacity. One wrong move and I have full motive for murder.”

Neil is torn between relief and nerves as he laughs and pulls Andrew back in. The tight grip Andrew finds on Neil’s forearm is like a solid reminder of what him staying means. Like a paperweight, Neil feels anchored to this spot. He soaks in the pressure of Andrew’s hips aligned to his, Andrew’s hands holding him down by arm and neck, Andrew’s lips and teeth marking his face with possessive kisses.

It feels right—their bodies tipping slightly over the edge, Andrew’s arms wrapped around Neil, and Neil’s caught between Andrew’s grip and holding onto the roof ledge to keep them from floating up and away. 

“We have to make a deal.” Andrew squeezes Neil’s forearm a little tighter, his lips trailing from mouth to collar bone.

“What kind of deal?” Neil is starry-eyed as he twists into Andrew’s touch.

“I can’t always be thinking you’ll leave me. If you’re going to be mine, I need you and I to cut a deal—to make a promise, if you will.” Andrew reaches up with his other hand and wraps his fingers along Neil’s throat in a gentle grip. “That way, if you do end up running, I’ll have a valid reason for strangling you once I catch up to you.”

Neil chokes out a short laugh. His hand reaches up to wrap around Andrew’s and press his grip a little tighter. “Whatever you think is fair. Tell me what you want.” 

Andrew leans the scant inches it takes for their noses to almost touch. 

“I’ll let you know when I have the fine-print details.” He reaches closer and, just as their lips are about to touch, he pauses and whispers against Neil’s skin. “First, I’m coming with you.”

Dazed by the proximity of hungry mouths, Neil can only stutter out, “Coming?” Andrew rolls his eyes and continues.

“When you get on a plane in, oh, about four hours. I’m coming with.”

Neil nods, pushing forward as if to confirm with a kiss. Andrew pulls away, his face a slate of blank yet solid resolve.

“Don’t you trust me to come back?”

Andrew slides a finger along Neil’s bottom lip. His finger catches against Neil’s skin and he repeats the action, tugging his lip down a little before reaching his eyes back up. “I don’t trust Day to let you return, more like it.”

“I’m pretty fast, you know. Quick feet, quick tongue.”

“Mmhmm. Anyone ever tell you you’re full of shit?”

Neil grins and bumps his nose against Andrew’s. He scowls a little at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

“Isn’t that why I keep you around?”

Andrew rolls his eyes but allows Neil’s lips the chance to steal a soft kiss before he slides off Neil’s lap. He flicks Neil's forehead and reaches for his cigarettes.

“Might want to figure out who can come feed your stupid cat.”

Standing up as well, Neil wipes at the traces of dust and dirt that coat the back of his pants. He notices the way Andrew pretends like he’s not watching Neil’s hands pat at his ass, and Neil has to twist his mouth out of a satisfied grin.

“You're really going to come with me? On the same flight?” 

Andrew flips open his phone and sends Neil a pointed look. _Do you dare suggest I can't find a way?_ Andrew dials a number and starts for the stairs. He doesn't need to look back to see if Neil is following. Neil would follow him anywhere.

 

⊗

They're waiting in line for the airport security when it starts to sink into Neil’s brain the weight of his actions, the weight of his choices. He sees it in the way Andrew fidgets his hands along his arm bands and Neil wishes he had the perfect words or touch to quell Andrew’s anxiety.

Somehow, in some inconceivable way that doesn't involve fake names or wired sums of money (but which may or may not have been conducted in an unlawful manner), Andrew’s cousin managed to charm him into a spare seat for their last-minute flight.

Andrew had hung up on Nicky without even mumbling a goodbye and quickly snapped his phone back open. With careful motions, he had dialed a second number before turning to face away from Neil.

“Bee. I won’t be at tomorrow’s appointment. I know. Taking a little trip out of town. Yes. Yes. Yes. I recall. Yes. Okay.” Neil didn’t say anything to Andrew when he hung up the phone and started finding clothes to pack up. Then he'd watched as Andrew peeled several sets of knives from his arm bands, slipping them into various hiding spots around his bedroom. Neil hadn’t wanted to crowd Andrew with his curiosity, but he allowed one question to slip.

“What did you tell her?” _What does she know? What does she think? What are you thinking?_

“That I’m doing what she told me to work on in our last session.”

Neil contemplates Andrew’s words as they walk closer to the TSA agents. Andrew is doing this for Neil. Telling had turned to showing had turned to doing, and the weight of that truth had Neil's brain spinning in euphoric circles. 

As they step forward with careful, quiet steps, Andrew watches the security guards with subtle suspicion. Neil, as usual, watches Andrew. He thinks, as he stares at the lines of Andrew’s broad shoulders, that he would look exceedingly well in goalie gear. 

Wymack had taken Neil's spare keys with a gruff, “you know I don't get paid for this, right?” He'd aimed his joke at Neil, but had kept his eyes focused on Andrew throughout the entire exchange. It was strange to think that Wymack, much like Kevin, knew Neil's Andrew as potential-exy-star Minyard. The goalie gem that had exploded onto the scene with a blaze of unforeseen glory, only to disappear into obscurity just as quickly.

Andrew, prickled by the coach’s gaze, hadn't uttered a word when Wymack shook Neil's hand and said, “When you get back, bring this one out to the court. I'd like to see if he's still got those quick reflexes.” But Neil couldn't unsee the shimmer of life that sparked in Andrew’s eyes for a brief moment. 

He thinks about that shimmer as they're ushered through the metal detectors. He thinks about where they are going, and how annoying facing Kevin Day will be.

But mostly he thinks about how they’ll be coming back. They’ll be coming back together.

 

⊗

Neil isn’t sure which sight is the most ridiculous. Overall, it may be the overwhelming visual of his tiny apartment squishing 11 people together at once. But instead of feeling suffocated by the extra bodies, he feels a trickle of warmth overloading his chest as he observes the mixed circles sprawled around his home.

After all, the end of September meant one important truth: Neil Josten had managed to keep a damn cat alive for 6 months. He hadn’t killed it (yet) and, most importantly, hadn’t left it on a street corner in favor of running away. Neil can’t tell who wields the highest air of smugness—the cat being fawned over or Matt Boyd, the winner of the bet. 

He rolls his eyes as he watches Matt cradle a mildly-tolerant King Fluff in his arms. Matt absently strokes the cat’s head as he watches Nicky Hemmick’s reenactment of what must be the most replayed exy-related news story of the year.

“...but the best part, and you guys all know this, the _best_ part by far, other than the—” Nicky plasters a scowl onto his face and mimes the tapping of a microphone. “‘Yeah. Hi, is this thing on?’ Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, Neil Josten is just a _gift!_  No, but the best part? You guys want to see me do the best bit?”

Matt and Dan—who is curled around Matt on the chair they’ve occupied all afternoon, holding a bag of _Tasty Beef_ cat treats in an effort to pacify King Fluff—laugh along. Neil turns away as the couple encourage Nicky to keep up his enthusiastic recap. Personally, he’s already seen Nicky’s ‘bit’ and, to be honest, it’s a much more entertaining embellishment of what he’d actually said to the presses. Neil instead sidles up to Kevin, who’s taken to a corner with his phone and his glass of vodka tonic. Kevin doesn’t look away, presumably reading over the recently updated exy stats and game analyses.

“Have I thanked you recently, Josten? For telling the world who my father was in your little public temper tantrum?” Neil reaches for Kevin’s phone, triggering him to at least look up as he moves to hold the object high out of Neil’s reach.

“My favorite part was calling you an asshole on national television. Want me to ask Nicky to redo that portion?”

Kevin and Neil exchange sneers for a moment before Kevin breaks, a cautious grin painting his face into a handsome mess. Neil might understand why some people trip over themselves to shake Kevin’s hand on the streets, but he also knows what Kevin looks and smells like after a rough bender.

“I could’ve invited him,” Neil says. “If you wanted a Daddy-Son play date.”

Kevin shakes his head. “No, it’s ok. It would’ve been more awkward than the few times we’ve had just the two of us.” Neil nods and waits for Kevin to continue. 

“Do you remember what you said to me that day? When you came to tell me you were rejecting my generous offer?” 

Neil doesn’t have to confirm that he can probably recount a good chunk of that conversation, mainly because it consisted of truths he hadn’t even known were inside of him— _They were squared off in a conference room inside Kevin’s team facility, just a few hours after Neil’s flight had landed._  

_“Is it that you hate him?” Neil said, torn between the need to inflict injury and sheer curious inquiry. “Because he couldn’t control not knowing he was your father.”_  

_Kevin’s face was contorted into a shape that Neil knew meant he was offended._

_“I don't hate him. I just—I don't know anything about him. He doesn't know anything about me.”_

_Neil clicked his tongue and scowled at Kevin’s defensive demeanor. “I’m the first person who will tell you that blood doesn't mean shit in regards to family but. Shouldn't you make that decision after at least trying?”_

_Kevin was silent, his stormy eyes studying the edge of the table that separated him from Neil._

_“You know what I've realized over the past year or so? I hate my mother.” Neil's voice had cracked a little over the words, and the thrills of panic streaming down his back served as unexpected momentum. How long had he known this about himself? How long had these words formed in his mind before he had the courage to blurt them out unexpectedly? Before Neil could backtrack, he took a deep breath and blazed on._

_“I hate her. Which doesn't make any sense because I love her, too. I know her choices were made in the effort to protect me, but it doesn't change the fact that the life she made for me was shitty and traumatic and... There are things she did and that we did together that I look back on and wish were just nightmares. I love my mother because she was my mother and she loved me, too, in her own ways. But I hate her for being the reason for so many of the scars I carry. I hate her for trying to kill us and for making so many decisions that should have killed us. I hate her and I love her and I think about her a little every day and it feels like too much sometimes. Like I'm a terrible son and a terrible person for wishing she hadn't died, not right away, just so I could have told her that to her face at least once.”_

_Kevin’s face reflected a pallor of distaste, but he didn’t interrupt or object to anything Neil said. He listened, his attention caught and open._

_“You have a father, and you could like him. You could hate him. But don't you think you owe yourself the chance to figure that out? And, speaking purely from my own experiences, Wymack is a great man. I really don't think you'd be disappointed.”_

—He doesn’t say aloud that he remembers, but Kevin isn’t as stupid as he pretends to be in regards to human emotions.

“I’m glad you were around to shit-kick some sense into me. So, this is me, kind of saying thanks. I guess.” Kevin bites back a smile as he reaches his glass out to tap against Neil’s. The two men stand there for a moment, pretending to not have an infinite weight of warring emotion on their shoulders, and maybe not-so pretending to be the closest of friends. 

Nicky of course chooses that moment to act out his favorite part of the ‘bit’, which consists of him using a bottle of dish soap he had swiped from the kitchen sink. 

“And then, the crazy fucker, he just leans in and gives ‘em the _eye_ ”—Nicky, leaning close into Matt and Dan’s faces, does a waggly motion with his eyebrows and holds the soap bottle close to his mouth.—“‘That is all, please don't bother me with any further questions because I promise you I won't be very polite with my answers.’ And then he—” Thrusting an arm up, Nicky spikes the bottle into the ground with a _clunk._ “Fuckin’ mic drops that shit, like the badass he is!” 

Kevin shakes his head and motions toward the bathroom (although Neil knows he’s probably just trying to escape the party so he can drink and read his sports highlights in peace) before he slips away. Neil enjoys the reprieve from social interaction he’s granted for the short few seconds it takes for someone else to sneak their way to his side. Jean Moreau takes Kevin’s space with the swiftness that makes him a deadly backliner on the court. You don’t realize he’s there until you’re on the ground and he’s scowling down at you through his helmet.

If it weren’t for the fact that he knew Jean’s face always defaulted into sour judgement, Neil would assume he was upset by the laughter surrounding Nicky’s dramatized reenactment of “Neil Josten Rejects Kevin Day In Person LIVE” via ESPN-E. But Neil knew better.

“Kevin was very upset after that performance of yours, you know.” 

With arms crossed against his chest, Jean looks away from the Nicky-spectacle, and instead focuses his gaze toward the open window. Neil twitches a look in the same direction—there stands Andrew, smoking and staring out over the small balcony, and Jeremy Knox, sipping a glass of beer as he chatters at his silent companion—before he settles back on Jean. 

“Fuck Kevin.” He watches the corner of Jean’s mouth twitch. A small grin creeps out for a little while as Jean turns his gaze back to Neil. They don’t always have the words to say what they actually mean. But Neil knows they have a strange and silent understanding, one born from the few years of grueling pain they suffered shoulder-to-shoulder under the angry hands of Riko Moriyama. They study one another in their shared space of silence. 

Neil thinks to himself that Jean looks better. Brighter. That he’s lost the deadened sadness that once haunted his face. He hopes that, in turn, Jean can see that the wildness that once blazed across his own face has been calmed. Focused. Given direction.

“Yes,” Jean finally whispers, his eyes darting downward. “Fuck him.” He hesitates, darting another look out toward the unlikely pair by the window. “I— I’m glad to see that you’ve found your own way. Your own means of happiness.”

Neil looks over in time to see Andrew flick his dead cigarette over the balcony and down to the sidewalk below. He studies the way Andrew’s strong hands automatically reach for another cigarette. He notices how Andrew’s slightly tensed shoulders clearly say _I’d prefer silence but at least he’s not saying something overtly obnoxious because there’s not enough a reason to constitute murder right now_.  

Neil smiles and nods at Jean. “I’m glad you’ve found your means of happiness, too.” And Neil understands now, that in the way he feels centered with a racquet in his hand, the way he feels at home surrounded by eager, young exy players, the way he feels calmed by the smell of smoke on Andrew’s sweaters—it must be the same for Jean, who looks infinitely safe and quiet with his eyes hooked to Jeremy’s back.

“We’ll be ok after all. Won’t we?” Jean’s voice breaks a little, and Neil wishes for a moment that he had been in the Nest alongside Jean from day one. Wishes that they had shared more than a year and a half’s time as partners, as brothers from the same family of suffering.

He wishes for just a moment, but what’s the use in wishing to change what’s long outside a person’s control? Andrew ashes and turns toward Jeremy in a breathtaking moment of mutual communication. Neil watches it unfold as he responds. “Yeah. We will be. I have a good feeling that we will.”

 

⊗

The party, though, was bound to have a few moments of drama. Andrew had warned Neil days before hand that Nicky was prompting potential homicide with his promise to “drag Aaron in by the scruff of his tiny little neck”. So far Neil hadn’t seen much of Andrew’s brother, or his accompanying girlfriend, and hadn’t minded that very much.

That is, until Aaron cornered Neil inside the enclosed kitchen and pushed him into the cabinets with a steady hand. He’d gotten into Neil’s face quickly enough to catch him off guard, but it was the look on Aaron’s face that kept Neil from responding physically. Aaron looked desperate, angry, and terrifyingly sad.

“You never answered me,”  Aaron growled in German, his shoulders gathered up as if he were prepared to go down swinging. “Is it because he’s broken? Is that what you’re into? Getting it from guys who are all fucked up and recovering from shit?”

Neil didn’t know how to respond at first, but he observed Aaron’s flushed cheeks and furious eyes. And, while Neil knew that Aaron and Andrew didn’t have much in common, he knew possessive protection when he saw it. Neil inhaled deeply before he responded with a calm, German tongue. 

“Andrew’s not broken, you dumb fuck. It’s insulting for you to even say that about him. You should know more than most people what he’s been through. Or do you regret attacking Drake when you found him on your brother?”

“Fuck you,” Aaron spat back in a ragged whisper. “I’d _never_ regret that. I’d bring him back just to kill him again, goddamnit.”  

“So is it you that’s broken? You’re all torn up because you killed someone? And your brother isn’t fixed? He’s not whatever ridiculous idea of ‘normal’ you think he should be? You’re right. People go through shit and it fucks them up. Sometimes they can lead a mostly normal life. Sometimes though they have to carve their own path. The world doesn’t know how to treat what it refuses to understand. Homosexuality, survivors of sexual abuse, the idea of masculinity—fuck your normative ideas, ok? Andrew is the strongest person I know. He struggles every day but he doesn’t give up. I’m proud to know him. I don’t stay with him because I’m some kind of predator or because he’s some kind of prey. I stay with him because he trusts me to come home every day, and because I trust him to be here. Or is that idea not normal enough for you?”

He leans in closer to Aaron’s space, just so he can whisper in a way that only Aaron can hear. “Why exactly are you mad at him? Is it really because of the Drake thing? Or is it about your mother?  Or _maybe_ you’re starting to realize that you might have more in common with your brother than you’d originally thought? And maybe that scares the shit out of you.” 

Aaron pushed himself away from Neil, flustered and tongue-tied. Outside the kitchen Neil could hear the lowered voices of their nosey friends, but he waited for Aaron to gather himself back into a presentable state.

Andrew chose this moment to pop his head around the corner, face unsurprised and bored as usual. “Are we all finished in here?” 

Aaron, assembled back into his usual annoyed demeanor, huffed and stormed out of the room. He shouldered past his brother, only muttering a, “he’s not so fucking bad, I guess” before leaving the area. Andrew glared at Neil until he’d shrugged a _what do you want me to do_? Andrew mumbled something that may or may not have been “112%” before he, too, shuffled close enough to press Neil into the counters.

They didn’t leave the kitchen for a few more minutes, and Nicky’s snarky inquiry as to why earned him a solid punch to the stomach from Andrew.

 

⊗

The second ridiculous sight (because, Neil and Andrew had agreed, Aaron trying to fight Neil had to be number one on the list) happened near the end of the party, when everyone was starting their goodbyes. As Neil is caught in an awkward hug between Katelyn and Nicky, he sees Matt attempt to pull Andrew aside in the kitchen (there would probably be a bruise around Matt’s forearm from where Andrew’s grip warned Matt away from ever trying to extend any kind of bro-type hugs ever again).

Neil wiggles out of Nicky’s grip in time to catch it. The blanket impatience on Andrew’s face falls into pained sickness as Matt attempts to thank him for being there for Neil—"...you know, in ways that I or the rest of the team could never manage to be, like, you know, not that we didn’t try to be there in those ways, just that you’re, well, I’m sure you know what ways you’re there for him—which, thanks to Nicky’s speedy reflexes, was definitely caught on camera. It was well-intended on Matt’s part, and pure foolishness on Nicky’s.

Neil had to hold back his laughter as they’d ushered aside so Nicky could sprint out of the apartment, and so Andrew could chuck a half-empty bottle of soda at Nicky’s back. It was almost as hilarious as Katelyn’s attempt to get Aaron to say goodbye to anyone.

It’s when his Foxes and ex-Ravens leave that Neil realizes it. As Allison shoves at Neil’s shoulder, and Dan hugs him tight enough to crack Neil’s back a little, and Matt fist bumps him with a face-splitting grin, and Kevin ushers Jean and Jeremey out so they can head out to their shared hotel—Neil is certain for the first time that their goodbyes aren’t final.

These are his people. They would stay in his life, probably for a long time. 

As he closes the apartment door behind the last person, Neil turns to watch Andrew. He’s pouring another glass of whiskey and tutting at the mess he would inevitably leave for Neil to clean up. Neil grins as he leans against the door frame to soak in the sight.

This is his person. He was staying for good.

 

⊗

For the most part, things do get better. 

It’s mid-October, and Neil is able to sit alone in the center of the court—doors closed and lights dimmed—without falling into a cycle of panic. It’s small successes like these that continually convince Neil that he made the right choice in staying. Of course, the best success of all is when he isn’t alone on the court late at night.

He remembers the first time he managed to tug Andrew through the plexiglass doors. The spare goalie gear was a little scuffed in places and made Andrew appear even bulkier than usual. In fact, just the sight of it set Neil’s blood racing. It had taken weeks of build up and two precisely planned questions to convince Andrew that this wasn’t a bad idea, and after five initial minutes of victory Neil had been ready to rip off every guard and pad. But he’d known then and he knows now: exy first, sex stuff later.

Andrew’s muttered curses and scowling glares weren’t enough to keep Neil from shuffling him into the net. That first night, they had made a deal for one hour and no more. ( _“An hour of you trying to get past me and that’s it. I won’t enable you anymore than that. An hour of play equals an hour of talking.”_ )

If anyone tried to ask Andrew to recall how long they actually spent on the court that night (almost three hours), they would probably get ashed in the face.

 

⊗

Sometimes, after they’ve wiped the floors and showered themselves off, they spend the rest of the night laying on the center line. That’s when Neil will pay Andrew back for their practices. He tells Andrew about every scar, every night he can recollect, every hit and every word twisted into weapons—the sharp pieces that still hide inside the corner of his mind. The things that sometimes flash in front of his eyes when he least expects it. Things that he can barely recall, things he wasn’t sure actually happened.

Andrew isn’t too free with his affections, but Neil doesn’t mind. He knows, when Andrew does reach out to grip his forearm, that this touch is more than enough to ground him. That the pads of Andrew’s fingers and the warmth of his palm are the softest touches he’s ever felt in his life. It’s enough, and it’s more than enough.

He lets Andrew share snippets of tricks he’s learned from Betsy. ( _“You’re here, Neil. You’re not going anywhere. Just tell yourself that and look me in the eye if you’re ever unsure. I promise you you’d be dead quicker than you can turn to sprint away.”_ )

The nightmares don’t ever really go away. But lately he’s been dreaming of better things. Of different worlds where, maybe, if life had been different, him and Andrew would wear orange uniforms together. Of worlds where he got to have a professional jersey printed with his name on it and a person to go home to. The dreams are nice, but in the morning he’s glad to find that at least one of them is true. It’s always his favorite part, after all.

 

⊗

The stars are clear above them tonight. They’re sitting on the back of Andrew’s car in the parking lot outside the apartment complex, limbs still smarting from a night of practice with the newest Foxes. Neil can smell the fresh scent of body wash wafting from Andrew’s skin, interlaced with the smoke of a cigarette, and he thinks, _So this is home_.

A small breeze rolls through and Neil feels the hairs on his arm comb about. Andrew offers a freshly lit cigarette to the fingers resting on his chest. The car radio hums as it alternates between songs that are fast-thumping (Andrew’s picks) and softly-melodic (Neil’s picks).

They don’t say much. ( _“What is this fucking noise, Andrew, honestly.”_

_“Watch your mouth, Josten. At least it’s not more of that whiny acoustic shit.”_  

_“Okay then. But you do have terrible taste.”_

_“I’m sitting here next to you, aren’t I?”_

_“Exactly.”_ )  

But when Andrew’s spare fingers find their way into the hair at the nape of Neil’s neck, and Neil’s cheek finds the warmth of Andrew’s firm shoulder, he can almost hear Andrew’s thoughts respond.

_Yes, you are here_ . _And this is our home_.

 

⊗

 

_[epilogue: andrew's point of view]_

 

 

◎

 

There’s a letter Andrew keeps stuffed into the last half of an old paperback shoved into the bottom right corner of his bookshelf. He hates the letter, hates the paper it’s contained in, hates the ink that was used to scrawl the words and loathes every stroke that composes every letter. He hates that he can’t quite manage to throw it away, but he keeps it because it carries proof that one of the only _good things_ he’d ever had in his life had been a lie—he keeps the letter as a reminder.

(Even if he did manage to burn it, rip it up, skid over it with his back tires, he’d still see Cass’s words flashing behind his eyelids— _“...but to be fair he wasn’t all that bad, if only you had known him sooner, maybe things would’ve happened differently…”_ —an unsettling reminder that to her his experiences were devalued, removed, ignored, insignificant. He’s better now, good enough in the head to understand that she’s wrong. And maybe that’s the reminder he needs.)

There’s still days where wants to rip the skin off his arms, to scratch his identity away like a cheap lottery ticket. Maybe then Neil would finally realize that he’s no prize. Maybe that would be the day Neil would finally make good on that nickname.

There’s days like that, ones where Andrew can’t be bothered to move more than what it takes to reach for a new cigarette, letting the waves of anxiety lull him into a state of disassociated mess. There’s days where Andrew can’t help but push everyone away, words as sharp as the knives strapped to his forearms. Everything he says layered with bitter truths as he spits and hisses as viciously as King Fluff does when they take him to the vet for check ups. _Fuck you, don’t fucking touch me. Leave me alone. Fuck everyone and everything._

But even on these days, Neil comes home. Regardless of how distanced, how spaced, how angry Andrew gets, Neil doesn’t run. 

He comes home every day. And every day that passes, Andrew thinks with more and more confidence: to be in his skin is maybe worth it after all.

 

 

◎

 

Betsy is spinning her spoon around the mug with precise turns. It’s always 15 spins. Andrew has counted enough times to have it memorized. Betsy appears to be a strange combination of concerned and excited, but her face won’t admit to either.

“How is the black eye?” 

Andrew squeezes the ceramic under his fingers. The weight he’s carrying in his shoulders feels a little looser. Always there, but at least for now less restricting, less demanding.

“He says he’s fine. Which doesn’t mean anything, the fucking moron could get hit by a semi truck and crawl away claiming to be fine with every dying breath. But, we did talk about it. It’s getting better.”

Betsy _hmms_ and takes a sip of her hot cocoa. “You explained your nightmares?”

He nods and says, “Yes. Briefly. He gets his own sometimes. He understands.”

“You have a mutual understanding. A system of give and take. It seems to be very balanced and fair. Are you at all afraid the scales could tip?”

Andrew stares into the chocolate galaxy swirling in his mug. “Sometimes. But I’ve read that that’s how relationships work, with a little bit of fear here and there. Neil and I have our deal, though. So I’m not too worried.”

“So you’ve figured out what you’re both committing to? Are you sure that, after—”

“Nicky and Aaron weren’t investing in me. They were investing in themselves. Which I understand, it’s what I would have done in their positions as well. But Neil doesn’t have to prove anything to me. I believe him when he says the deal is of mutual consent. We have both made it clear that we have our investments outside of each other and with each other. Maybe it’s not balanced from anyone else’s perspective, but, to be frank, fuck everyone else’s perspective.” 

Betsy’s face splits into a grin and it makes Andrew’s stomach twist. She looks almost proud of Andrew, which is hilarious because no adult has ever been _proud_ of anything Andrew has said or done. No sane adult, that is.

“Tell me about your new job, then.”

He drains his cup of cocoa before sighing.

“I still work at the bookstore every so often, but the new job involves exy and the exy idiot. So, prepare yourself to be bored to death.”

 

 

◎

 

The court was brighter at night, probably due to the florescent lights bearing down on it all and the echoing stillness of empty stands. Andrew would never say it aloud, but he likes it this way best. (Imagine him admitting that he enjoyed the exy court in any form—Neil would never shut up about it, and Andrew would finally have to kill him.)

Neil is finishing his routine—a series of stretches and checks that combine what he’d picked up from being around Dan and Matt, as well as the affirmations he’d begrudgingly taken from Wymack. Andrew watches from where he sits inside the net. It almost looks like Neil’s warming up, but Andrew knows he’s performing his own mantra. 

_You’re here, this is Palmetto State. Evermore is miles away. Riko isn’t alive anymore, not after he was exiled to Japan and disappeared after a shady business deal. You won’t be dragged to the center court and have lines drawn into your skin with a pocket knife. I’m here, I’m here when you’re ready. I’m here for you, you beautiful moron._

When he’s finished, Neil trots out to the court and starts running drills. Andrew watches when necessary, guards the goal when Neil calls for him. This is part of their new deal, Neil’s end of it.

_“I want you to start training again. It’s your thing, being good at exy. You miss it. That’s why you waited so long to tell Day no.”_

_“I’m never going to be as good as I was, though.”_

_“So. Fuck who you were before. You’re Neil Josten now. Be the best version of who you are now.”_

They continue their routine until a voice calls out to them. A small cluster of Foxes are gearing up by the benches, some waving to Neil as if saying _See, asshole, we’re here!_ , the rest groaning into their hands as if they’d rather be dead than on the court at midnight. Neil grins and calls them to the center. Andrew knows he could join them, but stays within the lines of his goal.

He’d get his say soon enough.

_“If I start training again, I want you to join me as part of the coaching staff.”_  

_“You’re fucking kidding, right.”_

_“You have an eye for exy, and don’t make that face at me. You can say you hate it all you want, but you and I both know that you’re good at it, too. And the kids know it. When you called Jake out the other day, correcting the way he swings? You absolutely pissed him off, but you also helped him fix his alignment. You’d be amazing at helping me as a co-assistant coach or something. And Wymack could use your mindset to help scout new recruits.”_  

He thinks about how after this late-night practice, they’ll linger after watching the younger players clean up the sweat and gear. He thinks of how he’ll tug Neil into the furthest corner of the locker room. He thinks tonight maybe he’ll keep one of Neil’s hands bound and let the other join his as they work the tension out of their bodies. A perfect cool-down routine, in Andrew’s opinion.

He thinks as he stands in the corner of the goal, as he watches Neil arrange cones and direct the plays, as he stays as still and silent as possible in the hopes that his presence will stay unnoticed for as long as possible. He thinks about how, in this moment, he feels calm. He thinks about how, although Neil and he can’t save each other from the shit that has rained on them and will probably always rain on them—the fact remains that this is nothing compared to the horrors they’ve survived.

He thinks their nothing is something that could make him as close to whatever the rest of the world calls happy.

Andrew thinks he might be happy.

It’s not so scary after all.

 

 

◎

 

Andrew is pouring a second cup of coffee for himself as Neil steps out of the bathroom. He intentionally doesn’t watch Neil towel his hair off, instead focuses on sprinkling _one-two-three_ teaspoons of sugar into his mug. He twists his spoon around and watches as the milk, coffee and sugar swirl into the only blessings he cares for this early in the day.

A soft scratching noise claws its way up the kitchen counter by Andrew’s legs. He peers down to find King using the wood to stretch his paws up toward Andrew’s resting hand. A tinny _mrrrow_ and curious eyes are all it takes for Andrew to sigh and reach down to pet the cat.

He feels Neil’s eyes watching as he bends enough to scoop King up. Once he’s hoisted King over his shoulder, front paws running down his back and tail swishing in his face, Andrew grabs his mug and shuffles toward the bed. Neil, still a little warm from his morning run and shower, creeps up behind him with a soft hand to Andrew’s hip.

“Yes?”

Andrew huffs but stops moving. “I hope he bites your nose off.”

Neil’s probably smiling that annoying fucking grin of his, Andrew just knows it, but he waits as Neil presses a kiss to King’s forehead before reaching around to press a kiss to the side of Andrew’s neck. It tingles in a strange, comfortable way. He lets Neil use the hand on his hip to pull Andrew into a loose embrace. Another kiss reaches behind Andrew’s ear. Another kiss finds a home on Andrew’s cheek. Andrew moves his head enough for Neil to reach around, and another kiss lands on Andrew’s lips. It’s firm and unrushed. Andrew inhales through his nose and watches as Neil’s pupils dilate.

The moment is broken when King grumbles with frustration, wriggling in Andrew’s grip. Andrew drops the cat and pries Neil’s hand off. Holding his mug to his chest, he takes the necessary steps to the bed and slinks back into his nest by the window. Neil crawls in after him and Andrew allows him the space to rest his head in Andrew’s lap. King follows shortly after Neil, stretching his limbs alongside Andrew’s legs. Together, they wrap their arms and tail around Andrew as he sips his coffee and picks up a book. A waiting cigarette sits in between the pages. He locates the paragraph he’d left on and, before he eases back in, he runs through a silent mantra.

_Here. I am here. This is happening. I am home. This is real. I am safe. I can stay right here._

Between Neil’s rhythmic breaths and King’s purrs, Andrew thinks to himself that, for the first time in his life, he’s more than 100% sure that living every day is worth this.

 

 

◎

 

_[the end]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys. I absolutely have to get to work, but I feel like you deserve this fic. thank you thank you thank you, and thank you for being so patient. I hope that this endlessly sappy ending is worth your wait. 
> 
> please leave a comment to tell me how you feel. i will respond to comments next because some of them might have made me cry, and tbh i would go back and read them when struggling to finish this fic. 
> 
> please come bug me on tumblr, too, if you have any questions or further things to say. i'm @[clubbingattheclub](http://clubbingattheclub.tumblr.com).


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